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DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


ELLERY H. CLARK 


OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


Loaded Dice 
The Carlton Case 
The Money Gods 
Putting it Over 





DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


BY 

ELLERY H. CLARK 

n 


DORRANCE & COMPANY 

Philadelphia 


COPYRIGHT 1924 
DORRANCE & CO INC 




All Right* Reserved 




MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 


SEP 24 *24 ■ 

C1A808015 


Q 

\ 



To 

TEE DAUGHTERS OF EVE 

those strange creatures, half-angel, half-devil, who make men '$ 
lives doth a torment and a joy, 

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED 
with admiration, contempt, hostility 
and deep affection 

By 

THE AUTHOR 



v^- 



* 















CONTENTS 


i 

ii 

hi 

IV 

V 

VI 

VII 

VIII 


IX 

X 

XI 


XII 

XIII 

XIV 
XV 

XVI 

XVII 

XVIII 

XIX 


PART I 

AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING 


The Unexpected. ii 

The Root of All Evil. 28 

Trouble Begins . 42 

The Course of True Love. 57 

Runs True to Form . 78 

Pride Goeth . 95 

Before a Fall.105 

The Woman Tempted Me.119 


PART II 

IS NOW 


Sunshine .133 

Shadow .161 

Tangled Threads .174 


PART III 

AND EVER SHALL BE 

The Sure Thing . 

The Way of the Reformer Is Hard 

The Claws of the Tiger. 

Mary Magdalene. 

A Poet's Song. 

Puppets of Fate. 

Man Proposes. 

God in His Time Disposes. 


189 
211 
226 

237 

■255 

267 

274 

280 




























DAUGHTERS OF EVE 
Part I 

As It Was in the Beginning 


















DAUGHTERS OF EVE 

I 

The Unexpected 

The afternoon fast drawing to a close belonged 
on the calendar to February and not to May. Yet 
the warmth of Spring was in the air, while to 
complete the illusion, the westering sun as it 
neared the horizon smote suddenly through a 
rift in the clouds, transforming into a blazing 
altar the massive gray ramparts of the Stadium 
and mellowing into pale, clear gold the broad 
and level reaches of Soldiers’ Field. 

The day’s sport was over. Singly or in groups 
the straggling procession of young men, white or 
khaki or crimson clad, had come trooping home 
from ball field, track and river, to disappear one 
by one within the locker building, eager for the 
luxury of the cooling shower and the brisk tingle 
of the rubdown. One athlete alone, under the 
watchful eye of the grizzled track coach, was still 
at work in the field beyond the Stadium, sed¬ 
ulously endeavoring to master the science of the 
hammer throw. 

His last effort had been a failure so complete 
that is was unworthy of consideration, and the 
two men were now returning toward the circle. 

II 


12 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


The younger, with arm extended, was dragging 
the heavy missile after him along the ground. 
Symmetrically proportioned, his six feet of bone 
and sinew and rippling muscles under bronzed 
skin, recalled memories of Athens and Olympia 
in those far-off days when Grecian art enshrined 
in deathless marble the ideal beauty of her sons. 
Yet as he paused to gaze into the flaming west 
and to inhale a deep breath of the sun-drenched 
air, there was nothing in his speech that sug¬ 
gested Hellenic eloquence. “One peach of an 
evening,” he asserted cheerfully, and resumed his 
march. 

The gray-haired trainer made no reply. With 
the Dual Games and the Intercollegiates ap¬ 
proaching, his mind was filled with the cares and 
worries of his craft. On the Yale team, for 
example, was a giant who could hurl the hammer 
one hundred and fifty feet. Harvard, lacking such 
a man, must develop one, and with such a task 
confronting him it was, perhaps, small wonder 
that the beauty of “the dying day with dolphin 
hues” left him unmoved. His thoughts were 
centered on his pupil; his main reliance for placing 
in the event. The brawn was there; one 
hundred and ninety pounds of hard, muscular 
flesh. Nor was “nerve” lacking; Dick Meredith 
was the star fullback of the eleven, his courage 
tested on many a hard fought field. Only the 
final perfection of form was needed to add a 
second or third place, possibly even a first, to 
Harvard’s score. 


THE UNEXPECTED 


13 


The circle was reached and the trainer turned 
abruptly to his companion. “Now look here, 
boy,” he snapped tersely, “that last throw was 
rotten. Don’t speed up so soon. That’s just 
like you; you always want to start on high. Go 
easy on the first turn; save yourself for the 
second. You’re not bucking the Yale line. Now 
let’s see a real throw.” 

The younger man smiled good-naturedly. “I 
get you, Steve,” he quoted, and taking his place 
in the ring, he ground his spikes deep into the 
grass, stretched his muscular arms to their fullest 
extent and prepared to throw. Twice the brass 
ball gleamed as it circled his head; on the third 
swing he turned, gradually increasing his speed, 
and with a final mighty heave of back and shoul¬ 
ders sent the weight hurtling like a meteor 
through the gold-flecked air, to fall with a jarring 
thud deep into the soft turf, a good ten feet 
beyond his farthest mark. 

The trainer was quick to approve. “That’s 
throwing ’em,” he commended heartily. “Best 
one you’ve made.” And pacing the distance with 
the skill born of long practice, he added, “One 
hundred and thirty-five feet, Dick. That’s going 
to place, all right. You’ll get that Eli yet. No 
more work today, boy. Come in now and get 
your rub.” 

Following the curve of the Stadium they made 
their way leisurely toward the locker building, 
the trainer, as they strolled along, commenting 
sagely on mighty throws and throwers of the 


14 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


past. Yet Meredith evinced no great enthusiasm 
and at length, as his companion paused, he made 
reply. “Hammer throwing,” he confided, “isn’t 
bad sport, but between ourselves it’s a bit mo¬ 
notonous; give me something with more fight to 
it, like football. I wish next Fall were here. 
Maybe we won’t show ’em something, what?” 

The trainer’s eyes glistened under his shaggy 
brows. “Yes, we will,” he agreed, “provided you 
keep your health, my son. The coaches are 
banking on you in the backfield. You’re going 
to be the big noise on the offense. So you want 
to take care of yourself.” 

“Oh, sure,” replied Meredith. “I’ll keep in 
shape all right. My last chance at the Elis; I 
couldn’t miss that. Well, so long. I’ll see you 
tomorrow.” 

Half an hour afterward he swung jauntily forth 
from the locker building to find his roommate 
perched precariously on the fence outside, await¬ 
ing his arrival. 

“Hi there, Wally, old top,” he hailed. “How 
did the rowing go?” 

Walter Randall, engaged for the moment in 
disentangling his long legs from the railing, did 
not at once reply. Although nearly as tall as 
Meredith he lacked the latter’s breadth of shoul¬ 
der and depth of chest, and the whole expression 
of his countenance, together with a certain pre¬ 
occupation of manner, proclaimed the student 
rather than the man of muscle. Nor did his 
answer belie the inference. 


THE UNEXPECTED 


15 


“I didn’t try the river today,” he confessed. 
“There wasn’t time. I worked in the library until 
three, and then I went in town to the settle¬ 
ment house.” 

“Library! Settlement house!” scoffed Mere¬ 
dith. “Good Lord!” And as they left the field 
behind them and started homeward toward the 
Square, he added, with engaging frankness,“ Wally, 
old dear, in some ways you really are a nut. 
Kids and poetry—that’s all you seem to care 
about. 'Do unto others’ is out of date, you know; 
times have changed. Nowadays it’s 'Do others, 
or they’ll do you.’ There’s just one god to stick 
by, and that’s the dollar mark.” 

Randall smiled, as though unwilling to take 
the other seriously. “You always talk,” he re¬ 
torted, “as though you thought money were 
everything, but you know it’s not. When you 
come right down to it, ideals are what count, 
after all. And you have precious few of them, 
Dick. You claim you don’t believe in God; and 
apparently you don’t even want to help your 
fellow-man.” 

“Help my fellow-man,” Meredith echoed. “You 
bet your life I don’t. Religion is a dead one, my 
boy; knocked clean out of the box. There’s just 
one way to beat the game these days, and that’s 
to look out for yourself first. If you don’t shove 
you’re going to get pushed.” 

A shadow clouded Randall’s sensitive face, but 
he answered lightly enough, “Well, we won’t 
fight about it. As the lawyers say, there’s au- 


16 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


thority on both sides. At all events, you’re not 
the cynic you claim to be; your bark is a lot 
worse than your bite.” 

Meredith would have answered, but they had 
reached the middle of the bridge, and both, at 
the same instant, stopped short to gaze toward 
the western horizon, where a mighty blaze of 
purple and gold and crimson mellowed, by im¬ 
perceptible degrees, into pale green, rose-pink 
and delicate saffron, vanishing at last into the 
brooding, blue-black vastness of the darkening 
sky. 

“Isn’t that beautiful?” said Randall softly. 

“I’ll say so,” Meredith assented, and quite un¬ 
conscious of the triteness of his speech he added, 
“That’s a wonderful sight; a chance for a 
painter.” 

“Or for a poet,” rejoined Randall. “Skies like 
that, Dick, have inspired some of the loveliest 
lines in the English tongue.” And more to him¬ 
self than to his companion he quoted, half under 
his breath, 

“Silver and blue and green were showing, 

And the dark woods grew darker still; 

And birds were hushed; and peace was growing; 
And quietness crept up the hill.” 

“Who wrote that?” asked Meredith. 

“Rupert Brooke,” answered Randall, and at 
the sound of the name and the memories it 
awakened, both instinctively bared their heads 
and stood thus silent, watching the glowing colors 


THE UNEXPECTED 


17 


slowly fade, quite unaware that a passing motor 
had come to a stop behind them until a voice, 
ironically cool, sounded from the dusk, What do 
I perceive? Harvard undergraduates admiring 
Nature? Impossible! Why, it simply isn’t done.’ 

Both turned and made their way toward the 
car. “Hullo, Doctor Earle,” cried Randall, while 
Meredith added, more familiarly, “What are you 
doing around here, Doc? I didn’t know there 
were any cripples on your list at this time of the 
year.” 

The doctor leaned forward to shake hands. 
Young, good-looking, immaculately dressed and 
suave of manner, there was still some curious 
quality in his expression that accurately matched 
his voice, something so impersonal and cold as 
to be almost ophidian, while far back in his keen, 
appraising eyes there lurked a vaguely disquiet- 
ing gleam. 

“I shall admit,” he responded in his well-bred 
voice, “that I earn my salary as medical director 
largely during the football season. But baseball 
isn’t a parlor sport, at that. Today, for instance, 
one man split a finger, another was spiked sliding 
into second base, and a third was hit on the head 
by a pitched ball and knocked senseless—even for 
an undergraduate. Besides all that, I’ve just 
come from an important meeting of the Athletic 
Committee. So my afternoon has been, as you 
might say, replete with incident. Oh, by the 
way,” he broke off suddenly, “that reminds me. 


18 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


Neither of you boys happens to be married, 
do you?” 

They stared at him, too astonished to answer 
immediately. Then Randall laughed. “What's 
the joke?” he asked. 

The doctor smiled faintly. “No joke at all,” 
he replied. “Nothing connected with marriage 
is a joke. I merely asked, that’s all. And my 
advice is that for the present you’d better stay 
single. Well, I must be getting home. Sorry 
I’m not going your way.” 

They stood back from the car and the doctor’s 
hand was on the lever, when he suddenly paused. 
“I nearly forgot,” he observed. “Dick, my sister 
wanted me to ask you if you would dine with us 
on Sunday, at one. No company; just the family.” 

Meredith hesitated for a moment; then, as if in 
some embarrassment, replied, “I’m awfully sorry, 
but I’m afraid I can’t. I have another engage¬ 
ment. I’ll telephone her—” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” the doctor’s even tones 
reached them out of the darkness. “You’re a 
popular youth, Dick; sorry you can’t be there.” 
And the car shot smoothly away toward town, 
leaving Randall and Meredith to resume their 
interrupted journey toward the Square. 

“Now why on earth,” Dick demanded, with a 
trace of anxiety in his tone, “did he ask if either 
of us was married? What possible point was 
there in that?” 

“I give it up,” Randall answered carelessly. 
“If there was a point, I missed it. And I thought, 


THE UNEXPECTED 


19 


under the circumstances, it was rather poor taste 
to advise you not to marry, and then speak of 
his sister in the very next breath. As a matter 
of fact, Dick, why don’t you marry Marjorie 
Earle? If you’re as keen about money as you 
say you are, and your main idea in life is to look 
out for yourself first, I should say that here was 
your chance. She would accept you in a minute 
—everyone knows that—and besides being a 
peach of a girl, she has the well known fifty- 
seven varieties of cash. So why not try it?” 

“Now look here,” retorted Meredith, “when I 
need a manager, matrimonial or otherwise, I’ll 
let you know. Until then, I’ll try to run my 
affairs myself. Or, in other words, you shut up 
and mind your own damn business.” 

“Oh sure,” grinned Randall. “I was only giv¬ 
ing you a tip. Of course you’re not bound to 
follow it.” 

He spoke jestingly and without any suspicion 
that he was treading on delicate ground. Yet his 
words recalled to Meredith’s mind the interview 
of a month before, when Old John Earle, leader 
in the New England cotton trade and famed for 
his honesty and his plainness of speech, had asked 
Dick to his office and had there ventured a wholly 
unexpected suggestion. 

“Dick,” he had said, “this is none of my busi¬ 
ness, and if Marjorie knew what I was doing 
she’d never forgive me. But her mother died 
when she was born; I’ve had to be her mother 
and father both, and I place her happiness above 


20 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


everything in the world. Now then, she likes 
you; I’m sure of it. Whether you like her is 
your own affair. But I’ll say this: I’ve watched 
you playing football; Eve watched you in my 
home; and I think I know the kind of stuff you’re 
made of. So I’ll tell you that not only would you 
be welcome as my son-in-law, but if your tastes 
lie in that direction I’ll take you into the busi¬ 
ness with me.” To which speech, and to the 
truly remarkable offer which it presented, Dick 
had listened with mingled wonder and embarrass¬ 
ment, and had been infinitely relieved when John 
Earle had added, “I don’t want you to give me an 
answer now. Consider what I’ve said, and some¬ 
time, when you’re down this way again, drop in 
to see me and we’ll have another talk.” 

It was of this interview that Meredith was 
thinking when he was aroused from his medita¬ 
tions as another motor came to a halt in the 
road behind them with an abrupt grinding and 
jarring of brakes, and the young man at the 
wheel leaned over and called to Randall, “I can’t 
go Saturday, Walter; I’ve got to run over to 
New York. You and Frank go ahead without 
me; make yourselves at home. Take Dick along, 
too.” And before Randall could answer, the 
machine was once more speeding rapidly on its 
way. 

“Well, what’s it all about?” asked Meredith. 
“That was Jack Neville, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Randall answered. “You know he owns 
a peach of a shooting-box down on the Cape. 


THE UNEXPECTED 


21 


Frank Endicott and I go there with him quite 
often, and he’d asked us for this week-end. We 
always have a bang-up time; you’d better come 
along.” 

“Any chickens?” asked Meredith. 

“No law against it,” rejoined Randall. “I can 
stand it, if it will make you happier. And I sup¬ 
pose it will. You surely make a hit with the 
girls, Dick. Those raven locks of yours, and 
those classic features, and that sturdy form. 
People may say what they please, but the old 
cave man still leads the field—brains and happy 
dispositions and all the other virtues are poor 
seconds. And I can prove it, too. With all my 
glittering accomplishments, the only girls who 
ever show the slightest interest in me are the 
ones who say, ‘So you’re Dick Meredith’s room¬ 
mate. How perfectly thrilling. You must tell 
me about him!’ It’s all wrong, my boy; it’s 
all wrong.” 

Meredith smiled a trifle consciously. “Oh 
well,” he responded, “the ladies are nice things, 
after all. We’d have a dull time without them; 
they certainly lend an interest to life.” 

As he spoke, they turned the corner into the 
Square, and as if to prove the truth of his words, 
almost collided with two young girls, both mod- 
ishly dressed, extremely pretty, and undeniably 
charming. The elder of the two, brown-haired 
and brown-eyed, hailed Meredith with the evi¬ 
dent ease of long acquaintanceship; the younger, 
who seemed little more than a school girl, blue- 


22 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


eyed and golden curled, greeted him with more 
restraint. 

Meredith hastened to introduce his friend. 
“Dorothy, this is my roommate, Walter Randall. 

•Miss Morrison, Mr. Randall. Miss Rosamund 
Leslie, Mr. Randall.” 

Randall shook hands, first with the divinity of 
the brown eyes, then with the goddess of the 
blue, utterly unaware that he was turning a 
virgin page in the volume of his life. Yet of one 
fact he was at least dimly conscious, namely, that 
his entire world seemed to fuse and focus on rosy 
lips, violet eyes, and a flower-like face, half 
girlish, half womanly, and wholly irresistible and 
disarming. 

The four chatted for a moment, until Dorothy 
observed, “We’re terribly late; we must hurry. 
You’ll be around tonight, Dick?” 

“Oh sure,” Meredith answered. “Wouldn’t 
miss it. Eight sharp.” 

The two girls, arm passed through arm, flut¬ 
tered away into the stream of passers-by. On 
Randall, like a man awakening from sleep, the 
consciousness of the world he had just left burst 
with a sudden roar—clanging trolley cars, shout¬ 
ings newsboys, jostling crowds, the glare of lights 
—all the clamor and bustle of the Square. And 
yet, in spite of its whirling radiance, a world that 
seemed at once quite empty and forlorn. 

“Come on, come on; a little pep!” Meredith 
was urging impatiently. “I’m hungry as the 


THE UNEXPECTED 


23 


devil. And I’ve got to stop at Ed Curtis’ room 
a minute, too. So come along!” 

Randall, still moving as if in a dream, com¬ 
plied. “What’s the name,” he inquired, “of the 
girl with the curls?” 

Meredith shot him an amused glance. “The 
girl with the curls,” he repeated mockingly. 
“Well, well, little Walter is waking up from his 
nap. Sitting right up and taking notice. Isn’t 
that just too cute? Why, her name is Rosamund 
Leslie, and Dorothy—my friend—boards with 
Rosamund’s mother. So that’s that.” 

“Two mighty pretty girls,” declared Randall. 

“You’ve said it,” Meredith agreed, adding 
kindly, “There really are no ugly girls, you know. 
Simply pretty and very pretty, fine and extra 
fine; girls common, as you might say, and girls 
preferred. And these two are in the preferred 
class.” 

“Absolutely,” agreed Randall, still like one in 
a daze; then he ventured, “So you’ve known 
Miss Morrison for some time?” 

“Sure,” responded Meredith. “She’s my friend. 
I don’t really know Rosamund at all. If you 
think she’s pretty, you ought to see her sister; 
Stella is a regular movie queen. But Rosamund 
is a looker, at that. She’s only a kid, though; 
going to be a stenographer, I believe.” He paused 
a moment; then, with a laugh, “She’ll make a 
nice little peach for some kind employer.” 

Randall found himself resenting laugh, words 
and tone, and started to reply. But realizing the 


24 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


futility of protest, he kept silent, and they entered 
Curtis’ dormitory and began ascending the stairs. 
The sound of talk and laughter reached them, 
and Meredith ejaculated, “What the devil is 
going on up here? Sounds like a riot.” 

An instant later they threw open the door and 
entered. The tumult, which had momentarily 
subsided, promptly broke out afresh. Curtis, cap¬ 
tain of the hockey team, was lounging on the win¬ 
dow seat; Harris, editor of The Crimson , stood 
by the fireplace, pipe in mouth; Blagden, Number 
Seven on the crew, sat on the desk in the centre 
of the room, surrounded by a tumbled heap of 
evening papers, reading dramatically, amid clam¬ 
orous comment, from the red and black headlines 
of The Columbian. But at the appearance of 
Randall and Meredith, he broke off quickly to 
exclaim, “Heard the news? Either of you guys 
married? If you are, good night!” 

“What on earth,” demanded Meredith irritably, 
“is this gag about being married?” And he would 
have snatched the paper from the oarsman’s 
hand, but Blagden waved him back. “Just you 
listen to me,” he vociferated. “Here it is, all hot. 
Right off the press. ‘Benedicts ruled out of col¬ 
lege sports. Athletic heads of Harvard, Yale and 
Princeton make new ruling. Married under¬ 
graduates barred from intercollegiate competi¬ 
tion!’ Now then, what do you know about that?” 

Meredith listened in amazement. The mean¬ 
ing of Prescott Earle’s inquiry was now plain. 
The news must be true, yet scarcely able to 


THE UNEXPECTED 


25 


credit it, he exclaimed, “You’re joking, Bob. 
They haven’t made a rule like that?” 

“Joke nothing,” Blagden responded, laying 
down the paper. “It’s an actual fact. There’s a 
long report from the Committee, full of wisdom 
and eloquence, but the gist of it is that in these 
days a man can’t swing studies, athletics, and 
married life, all at one time. That when a man 
marries, he should, in Scriptural language, put 
away childish things. Great chance for an argu¬ 
ment. They’ve started something, all right.” 

“I’ll tell you this much,” broke in Harris. “It 
will be a gold mine for the humorists. The 
Lampoon will run a special number. It’s really 
an awful dig at married life. It’s as if the Uni¬ 
versity said to the undergraduate, ‘Poor boy, we 
mustn’t burden you further; you surely have 
troubles enough of your own.’ What do you 
think about it, Wally?” 

“Well,” answered Randall, “there is a funny 
side to it, but on the whole I think the Com¬ 
mittee is right. There’s something out of place 
in the idea of a halfback with whiskers, a weep¬ 
ing wife on the sidelines, and two or three chil¬ 
dren shouting frantically, ‘Smear ’em, dad! Treat 
’em rough!’” 

There was a general smile at Randall’s picture. 
Then Curtis added, “Well, as Harris says, this 
will be a treat for the funny men. Won’t it, 
Dick, old sport?” 

Meredith, oblivious to what was being said, 
had been busily scanning the headlines, eager to 


26 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


verify the report with his own eyes. Now, with 
a vigorous gesture, he flung the paper on the 
floor. “A damned imposition, I call it,” he cried 
angrily. “Why, it’s an interference with a man’s 
rights. Confound it, I don’t believe it’s consti¬ 
tutional.” 

The others, first gazing at him in astonish¬ 
ment to make sure that he was serious, burst 
simultaneously into a roar of laughter. There 
followed comment, fast and free. 

“That’s the stuff, Dick. Take it to court.” 

“What was her maiden name?” 

“Now you can’t play next Fall.” 

“Any children, Dick?” 

“Don’t you tell ’em; it’s none of their business.” 

But for once Meredith, always ready to jolly 
or be jollied, as the case might be, seemed wholly 
unable to appreciate their humor, and took refuge 
in a retort conspicuously elementary and inade¬ 
quate. “Oh, shut up! You fellows make me 
tired. Come on, Wally!” And with the surprised 
Randall following at his heels, he turned without 
another word and left the room. 

The quiet of utter astonishment reigned 
among the men after his departure. All traces of 
mirth vanished instantly; laughter lay dead on 
their lips. At length Curtis ventured hesitat¬ 
ingly, “You don’t really suppose,—” but Blagden 
cut him short. “Oh, forget it! Of course he 
isn’t.” Yet it was clear to the others that the 
words were prompted by hope rather than con¬ 
fidence, and presently, appalled at the possibility 


THE UNEXPECTED 


27 


of such a tragedy, they arose, and without a trace 
of their recent hilarity, descended the stairway 
and passed silently into the night. 


II 


The Root of All Evil 

It was an hour later when Randall and Mere¬ 
dith left their club and walked leisurely and in 
silence up Linden Street in the direction of the 
Yard. Presently Randall asked, “What about 
this week-end proposition, Dick? Do you want 
to go?” 

“Oh, I guess so,” Meredith answered. “It 
sounds all right. You say Neville really has a 
wonderful place?” 

“No doubt of it,” replied Randall. “He calls 
it a shooting-box, but it’s fitted up like a hotel. 
There’s wonderful duck shooting in the Fall, but 
there’s nothing doing, of course, at this time of 
year, since they passed the law against shooting 
in the Spring. But we can row and sail, tramp 
around the beaches and marshes and have a good 
time generally. So you’d better go.” 

“Sure,” Meredith assented, “I’m with you. 
And that reminds me. We were talking, before 
dinner, about inviting some girls. What did we 
decide about that?” 

“We didn’t decide,” rejoined Randall. “We 
were just discussing it when we met your friends 
in the Square. But now I’ll make this proposi¬ 
tion. Let’s invite those two girls and ask your 
28 


% 


THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL 


29 


sister-in-law to be chaperon. What do you say?” 

“That’s good here,” agreed Meredith. “Only 
you’ll have to invite my brother, too. He’s the 
original jealous husband; gets frightfully sore if 
Mary goes anywhere without him.” 

“Oh, by all means,” Randall acquiesced. “I’d 
be glad to have him come. As a matter of fact, 
you see, we haven’t provided a girl for Frank 
Endicott, and Frank must have someone to 
preach to. So we’ll let your brother be the 
goat.” 

By this time they had entered the Yard and 
turned their steps in the direction of Gray’s Hall, 
but at the mention of Endicott’s name Meredith 
stopped abruptly. “I’d forgotten he was going,” 
he said. “Your holy cousin! The pride of the 
Divinity School! Won’t he be an awful joy- 
killer?” 

Randall laughed. “Oh, Frank’s all right,” he 
rejoined easily; adding, as they resumed their 
walk, “Suppose you’d been in the War, and been 
gassed and shell-shocked and had part of your 
leg shot away! You might be just a little 
queer yourself.” 

“Of course I might,” Meredith agreed. “Please 
don’t think I don’t sympathize with Endicott, 
because I do. But he’s so darned aggressive 
about his religion; that’s what I can’t stand. He 
must know that one man can’t reform the world. 
So I claim he’s not sincere. I believe it’s all a 
pose.” 

“No, no,” Randall denied with vigor. “Not 


30 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


a bit of it. He’s absolutely in earnest. Do you 
think, if he wasn’t, he’d be going into the minis¬ 
try! It’s the worst paid profession in the world. 

“He wouldn’t, if he were poor,” answered 
Meredith, “but I understand he’s pretty well 
fixed. Hasn’t it been in all the papers, that he’s 
inherited a million or so?” 

“He has, and he hasn’t,” rejoined Randall. 
“For one thing, it isn’t a million; it’s something 
less than a half million. And for another, he 
may not get it at all, because there’s a contest 
over the will. His grandfather was a most eccen¬ 
tric old bird, and Frank is the storm center in a 
first-class, old-fashioned family row. But if the 
will is upheld he’ll be rich, and incidentally I come 
in for twenty thousand myself. We ought to hear 
almost any time now.” 

Meredith whistled. “Half a million dollars!” 
he ejaculated. “Oh boy! Well, he’ll certainly 
lend tone to our week-end. I’ll spring that 
Bible stuff on him about giving all you have to 
the poor and tell him I’m the poor.” 

While he was speaking they had entered their 
dormitory and mounted the wooden stairway, 
Laconian in its barren simplicity. As they en¬ 
tered their room Randall almost stepped on an 
envelope which lay on the floor, and picking it 
up, he walked over to the table and examined it 
by the light of the study lamp. Then, with a 
smothered exclamation, he tore it open, glanced 
hastily at its contents, and cried, “Just what we 
were talking about, Dick. A letter from the law- 


THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL 


31 


yers. The will was sustained. Frank gets his 
money and I get mine. This is our lucky day.” 

Meredith, peering over his shoulder, slapped 
him heartily on the back. “Bully for you, old 
scout!” he exclaimed. “Are you going to 
celebrate ?” 

“Not I,” Randall answered. “It’s not really 
such a shock; our lawyers were pretty confident 
we’d win. Still, it’s nice to have it settled. And 
it’s a wonderful thing for Frank. I know he’ll do 
a lot of good with his share.” 

“Oh, ‘good’ be damned,” cried Meredith. 
“That’s all poppycock. If he has any sense, he’ll 
freeze to it for all he’s worth.” Then, as his 
roommate started toward the door, he added 
suspiciously, “Where are you off to, Wally? I 
believe you’re lying to me. You are going cele¬ 
brating, after all.” 

“A mild sort of celebration,” smiled Randall. 
“I’m going to hear Leonard Hamilton, the Eng¬ 
lish pianist, at Jordan Hall. Bach and Schumann, 
Chopin and Debussy. It ought to be good. I 
must hurry, too. You’ll see the girls, will you, 
Dick?” 

“I surely will,” Meredith answered. “I’ll see 
to everything.” He stood for a moment, listen¬ 
ing to the clatter of Randall’s retreating foot/: 
steps, then flung himself into a chair and gazed 
moodily into space. “Half a million dollars,” 
he muttered. “Can you imagine that? And 
Wally gets twenty thousand. And I’m worth 
about twenty cents. Things don’t seem to be 


32 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


breaking my way. And now I’ve got to go and 
see Dorothy and tell her about that damned 
athletic rule.” 

He rose, walked moodily down the stairs, and 
had started in the direction of the Square when 
he heard his name called sharply. He turned to 
confront the very man whose good fortune he had 
been envying. Frank Endicott would have com¬ 
pelled attention in almost any company. Not only 
was he of unusual height, towering nearly half 
a head over Meredith, but he possessed as well 
the broad shoulders, thin flanks, and ‘‘rangy” 
build of the born athlete. His features were 
sharp and aquiline; his fair hair curled rebellious- 
ly over his well-shaped head, and his keen blue 
eyes looked penetratingly upon the world about 
him. Altogether, he seemed the embodiment of 
restless, tireless energy; a man, you would have 
said, incapable of sloth or even of repose. Nor 
did his manner belie his appearance, for he hailed 
Meredith in crisp, incisive tones. 

“Is Wally in his room?” 

“No,” Meredith answered, “he’s gone to a 
concert in town. Any message?” 

“No, it’s all right; just wanted to see him.” 
Then, abruptly, “Look here, Meredith, I want 
you to do me a favor. Will you take a Sunday 
school class in my church? The kids look on a 
chap like you as a kind of a god; in the public 
eye, you know, and all that. You would have 
a great chance to influence them for good. What 
do you say? Be a good fellow, now.” 


THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL 


33 


“Thanks,” Meredith responded with equal 
decisiveness, “that’s the last thing in the world 
I’d want to do. Boys don’t interest me particu¬ 
larly, and Sunday schools not at all.” 

But the Divinity student was not daunted. 
Clearly, his combative nature throve on opposi¬ 
tion. “But you haven’t tried it,” he urged. “You 
can’t tell whether you’d like it or not. Be a good 
sport, Meredith; I’ll expect you a week from 
Sunday.” 

The hammer hurler, however, did not possess 
one of those plastic, acquiescent natures which 
yield to the domination of others. Frank Endi- 
cott’s manner—what his friends were wont to 
describe as his “God Almighty air”—never failed 
to irritate Meredith, and tonight was no exception 
to the rule. He answered sharply, “You can 
expect me all you damn please, but I won’t teach 
a Sunday school class for anyone on earth. 
You’ve been through this athletic game; you 
know how much time it takes; and unless a 
fellow happens to be a genius, you know that 
keeping off probation, nowadays, means a lot of 
work. And so when Sunday comes I’m darned 
glad to have it to myself. If I were rich enough 
to live as I pleased, I might go you; but as it is, 
no Sunday school for mine.” 

Endicott stepped forward and laid his muscular 
hand on the younger man’s arm. “Meredith,” he 
exclaimed with feeling, “you’re a type; a per¬ 
fect type of today. If you were drowning and 
someone threw you a lifeline, you’d cling to it 


34 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


and never let go. And now it’s the world that s 
drowning; sinking in a sea of sin; and religion 
is the lifeline that will save it. And yet you’re 
willing to see that life line drift away, ungrasped!” 

Meredith, without making his movement posi¬ 
tively offensive, stepped back just far enough to 
dislodge Endicott’s hand from his arm. “By re¬ 
ligion,” he queried, “you mean the Bible, I 
suppose?” 

“Very largely,” the other answered. “The Bible 
is our eternal refuge; the one anchorage that 
endures.” 

“Well, if that’s our anchorage,” retorted Mere¬ 
dith flippantly, “then we will be wrecked. I never 
could see anything in the Old Testament, not a 
blessed thing. God seems to be a kind of a 
Tammany boss, and David and Solomon and the 
rest of the crowd did business with him in a 
crafty, cold-blooded, calculating sort of way. So 
many prayers and burnt offerings and other 
sacrifices, and then they knew the Lord would 
deliver the goods. A tough old crowd, if you 
ask me; I never cared for ’em at all.” 

Endicott’s face set sternly. “Meredith, you’re 
profane,” he answered. “You make no allowances. 
Those were primitive times. But leave the Old 
Testament out of the question, and consider only 
the New. If you—if I—if all of us—followed 
Christ’s teaching today, the world would right 
itself, even now. The Sermon on the Mount— 
that will stand forever.” 

Meredith’s expression was one of sardonic 


THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL 


35 


amusement. “Endicott,” he observed, “you’re 
hopelessly wrong. Why, Wally and I were dis¬ 
cussing this very matter only today. And I’ll tell 
you the absolute truth: Christ’s teaching is like 
so many other things; it’s a beautiful theory. 
The trouble is, it won’t work. And since this is 
a practical world, people won’t bother with an 
impractical proposition. Here, I’ll prove it to 
you. Who is popularly supposed to be the great¬ 
est American of modern times?” 

Endicott replied instantly, without hesitation, 
“Theodore Roosevelt.” 

“Of course,” agreed Meredith. “And what was 
his creed? Was it self-sacrifice? Self-effacement? 
Ministering unto others? You bet it wasn’t. It 
was Power, Success, Glory. It was ‘Me first,’ 
every time. In a crisis, whom did he consider 
first? Himself. He deserted Bellamy Storer; he 
‘knifed’ Taft, his bosom friend; he split the Re¬ 
publican party for eight long years. And he 
‘took’ Panama—broke a treaty, outraged a 
friendly nation because it was small and weak, 
and easy to knock in the head with his ‘Big 
Stick.’ No man could be more anti-Christ than 
was Theodore Roosevelt. But if you tell this to 
the American public, they laugh and say, ‘Well, 
what of it? Didn’t he get away with it?’ ‘He 
Got Away With It’; that ought to have been 
Roosevelt’s epitaph. And that’s what America 
worships today—the Golden Calf, Mammon, 
Moloch! And you talk about the Sermon on the 
Mount!” 


36 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


“Then you’d worship Mammon?” cried 
Endicott, deeply moved. “You wouldn’t try to 
fight?” 

“Not I,” answered Meredith. “What’s the use? 
It’s no one’s fault; conditions have changed. The 
old days have gone. Suppose there was a flood 
tomorrow; you’d rather take passage on The Levia¬ 
than than in Noah’s ark.” 

“That’s no argument,” exclaimed Endicott. 
“You’re mixing moral things with material things. 
Of course the world has changed; it’s your 
Leviathans and your luxury, your jazz and your 
jewels, that make life so difficult. We think these 
things are our servants, and they’re our masters. 
But the old standards of right and wrong are still 
the same, and I say again: The teachings of 
Christ must endure or the world is lost.” 

There was no mistaking his sincerity, his pas¬ 
sionate earnestness. But Meredith shook his 
head. “Well, I must be getting along,” he 
evaded. “We’ll thrash this out Sunday down on 
the Cape, at Neville’s shooting-box. Wally’s 
been kind enough to ask me down.” 

“That’s good,” said Endicott. “It’s a beautiful 
spot. Who else is going?” 

Meredith’s eyes twinkled with suppressed mer¬ 
riment. “Some lovely young girls,” he answered 
solemnly. “You can preach to them, too.” 

Endicott sighed. “Women! I always think 
of them as trouble-makers, lovely parasites twin¬ 
ing around men to clog and stifle them. Kipling, 
you know: ‘He gallops the fastest who gallops 


THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL 


37 


alone.’ Still, the Lord made them, and I sup¬ 
pose He knew what He was about.” 

Meredith chuckled. “Of course He did, ’ he 
assented heartily. “Never did a better day’s work 
in His life. You know those beautiful lines: 

“A dreary place would be this earth 
Were there no little pippins in it; 

The song of life would lose its mirth 
Were there no flappers to begin it.” 

Endicott smiled and sighed. “You’re incor¬ 
rigible,” he said. “And you really won’t take a 
Sunday school class?” 

“To quote our friend Abe Kabibble,” Meredith 
rejoined, “ ‘positively I won’t. Life’s sad enough 
already. Let me have my Sundays to myself.” 
And the two men separated. 

“A pagan,” mused Endicott, as he started for 
the Mission in the South End. “Absolutely 
typical of the times. Good-looking, athletic, 
pleasure-loving, without the faintest thought of 
life’s responsibilities. He could influence others 
for good, and he won’t put his hand to the 
plough.” 

‘‘A fool,” thought Meredith, as he walked 
rapidly toward the Square. “An aristocrat, a bet¬ 
ter athlete than I’ll ever be, heir to half a million 
dollars, and he worries about the destiny of the 
world and wants to revive the commandments 
of Christ. A well-meaning, pathetic, irritating 
fool.” And with this he dismissed Endicott from 
his mind and permitted his thoughts to revert 


38 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


to his own immediate problems as he strode along 
toward the Square. 

He was destined, however, to encounter one 
more interruption, for near the curve of Brattle 
Street a slender, fur-clad figure barred his way, 
a slender, black-gloved hand sought his, and a 
charming voice inquired pathetically, “Why, Dick, 
don’t you take the trouble to speak to old 
friends?” 

“Stella!” exclaimed Meredith. “Well, I’ll be 
hanged. I haven’t seen you for months.” He 
stood gazing at her; then added with conviction, 
“You’re actually looking prettier than ever.” 

The girl smiled faintly, as though praise of her 
looks was an old story. “Do you really think 
so?” she asked indifferently; then, drawing him 
into the shelter of an adjoining doorway, “Are 
you glad to see me, Dick?” 

“Naturally,” Meredith answered. “Who 
wouldn’t be? I was on my way to your mother’s 
to see Dorothy. Come along.” 

“No thanks,” she rejoined quickly, “I’m going 
in town. Never mind Dorothy tonight; you see 
her all the time. You come with me.” 

“Can’t do it,” he responded. “I’ve got an 
invitation for Dorothy and Rose for a week-end 
at the Cape. Highly respectable. Chaperon ’n 
everything. I’m going to tell them now.” 

“How lovely,” she mocked; then added, “Come 
to think of it, I’m free this week-end myself. 
Get me an invitation too, dear.” 

Meredith hesitated. “If I did,” he hedged, 


THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL 


39 


“would you behave yoursek ? This is highbrow 
stuff. My roommate, Wally Randall, and his 
cousin, Frank Endicott. Very swell / 3 

She simulated indignation. “Behave myself T 
she pouted. “Don’t be horrid, Dick. You know 
I always do. When do we start?” 

He gazed down at her admiringly, appreciating, 
with the eye of a connoisseur, the loveliness of 
her features; the perfect blending of the tones of 
her dress and furs with her dark hair and dark, 
languorous eyes; the contrast afforded by the 
blood-red rose at her breast. And then suddenly, 
as if struck by an unexpected thought, his expres¬ 
sion changed and he began to laugh. 

Misinterpreting his mirth, a hard, defiant look 
crept into her eyes. “Well, let’s have it,” she 
said brusquely. “What’s the idea? You don’t 
think I’m good enough for your crowd?” 

Meredith, intent upon his own thoughts, seemed 
not to hear her words, or, at any event, not to 
heed them. “Listen, Stella,” he urged, “this is 
important. You know I haven’t seen much of 
you since two years ago. Tell me straight. Are 
you married—or anything."” 

The girl, noting the seriousness of his manner, 
was somewhat mollified, and the angry look 
faded from her eyes, to be succeeded by the old 
mocking light. “I’m not married,” she answered 
shortly. 

Meredith nodded. “I see,” he rejoined thought¬ 
fully; and then added, “And there’s nothing to 
stop you from getting married, if you feel like 


40 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


it. If I were worth a half million dollars, you’d 
marry me tomorrow.” 

“Oh sure,” she answered; then, with a gleam 
of humor, “Or tonight, for that matter.” 

He laughed in return, gazing at her admiringly. 
“That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it? But 
you’re quite safe. I haven’t got it. I’m still 
four hundred and ninety-nine thousand and some 
hundreds shy. So I guess I’m not your man.” 

“I’ll say you’re not,” she retorted with finality. 
“But what’s all the chatter about? What’s on 
your mind?” 

“This,” he answered. “I know a man who’s 
going to be on this house-party. He’s a high¬ 
brow, an athlete, unmarried, extremely good- 
looking—a blend of Greek god and collar ad—and 
he’s just inherited five hundred thousand dollars. 
So why don’t you go to it?” 

She had listened attentively. “Well,” she 
countered flippantly, “I’ll be the goat. Why 
don’t I? Where’s the catch?” 

“There isn’t any,” he assured her. “Or rather, 
he’s the catch, and a mighty good one. He 
imagines he doesn’t care for women, but then,” 
he concluded with gallantry, “he’s never met you.” 

“Aren’t you charming?” she mocked. “And 
you really think there’s a chance?” 

“I really do,” he answered. “You would have 
to play Miss Simplicity, of course, but you could 
always do that. And after you’ve married him, 
why, you know—old Boston family; no scandal; 
quiet separation; big alimony; and there you are.” 


THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL 


41 


“And where do you come in?” she queried. 

“Oh, we’ll divide,” he responded. “One-third 
for me; the rest for you. Are you game?” 

“Sure thing,” she agreed cheerfully. “Where 
do we meet?” 

“At the Square, Saturday at two. We motor 
down.” 

“And you’re really bound for Dorothy’s?” 

“Yes. We’ve got a lot to talk over. I had 
some bad news today.” 

“That’s tough,” she offered indifferently, “but 
life mostly is bad news, I guess. And we always 
think it’s going to be good, which makes it 
twice as hard. Well, farewell, Dick.” And 
assuming a manner ultra-fashionable, she ex¬ 
tended her hand, drawling, “Awfully jolly to have 
met you, Mr. Meredith. You must look us up 
when we come back to town.” 

Meredith stood watching her graceful figure 
as she made her way toward the Square; then 
quoted to himself, under his breath: 

j 

“Woman, lovely woman, 

Since first the world began, 

You’ve made double the share of trouble 
For poor, unfortunate man.” 

“And that’s no lie,” he muttered; and with a 
grim smile on his face, he resumed his inter¬ 
rupted way. 


Ill 


Trouble Begins 

At half past seven that evening Rosamund 
Leslie, clad in an evening gown of pink chiffon 
with a wrap of dark blue velvet thrown over her 
shoulders, stood in the doorway of Dorothy Mor¬ 
rison’s room. Dorothy herself was stretched at 
ease in the morris chair, her arms clasped behind 
her head, her dainty, silk-clad limbs luxuriously 
extended toward the fire which she had lighted 
more for its cheery companionship than from any 
need of its actual warmth. 

“So you won’t come to the dance with me,” 
Rosamund observed. “And it will be wonderful, 
too. Imagine a girl being able to go out and 
have a good time, and yet preferring to stay 
home and spoon. I call that growing old before 
your time.” 

Dorothy, without turning her head, smiled 
contentedly as she allowed her gaze to rest for 
a moment on the picture upon her mantel of the 
dark-haired young athlete with the crimson “H” 
on his breast. “Then I don’t mind growing old a 
bit,” she answered lightly. “Really, Rosamund, 
being engaged to Dick is so delicious that I don’t 
want to think about anything else; in fact, I 
couldn’t if I tried. Six months ago I wouldn’t 
42 


TROUBLE BEGINS 


43 


have missed a dance for anything on earth, but 
tonight I don't even feel a pang." 

Rosamund, glancing down at the girlish figure 
in the arm chair, so appealing in its fresh vir¬ 
ginity, felt instinctively a sense of compassion, 
and yielding to sudden impulse she exclaimed, 
"Oh, Dorothy, I hate to think of your being 
married." 

The effect of her remark was immediate, for 
Dorothy's brown eyes transfixed her with an ex¬ 
pression of amazed reproach. "Well, that’s a 
nice thing to say," she cried. "I thought you 
liked Dick." 

"And I do," Rosamund answered, "I like him 
very much indeed. It isn’t Dick I object to. 
But I’m sorry you’re going to marry anyone." 

Dorothy appeared only partly mollified. 
"That’s not a nice wish either," she rejoined. 
"Don’t you want me to be happy?" 

"But that’s just it," cried Rosamund. "That’s 
exactly what I do want. And you’re so happy 
now I can’t conceive of your being happier. 
That’s what frightens me. Don’t you see what 
I mean ? When you’ve reached the summit of 
anything, the road only leads one way, and that’s 
downward. I know that being in love is a gor¬ 
geous, luscious dream, but marriage—that’s the 
alarm clock ringing to waken you." 

Dorothy, undismayed by her friend’s forebod¬ 
ings, laughed outright. "What a baby you are," 
she observed. "Because, if you don’t want peo- 


44 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


pie to marry, my dear, then what’s to become of 
the world?” 

“I know, I know,” Rosamund acknowledged 
with perfect seriousness. “Of course marriage is 
like death: a necessary evil. But that doesn’t 
reconcile me to having it happen to people I like. 
You make fun of me, Dorothy, but you shouldn’t; 
I’m only thinking of you, dear. I know that 
being engaged is beautiful. But when marriage 
comes, all the beauty will vanish and in its place 
will come drudgery—all kinds of it—cooking, 
mending, scrubbing floors. If Dick were rich, 
you’d be spared that, but unfortunately he’s not. 
And in these days, marrying a poor man is a 
handicap to start with.” 

Dorothy, however, refused to show alarm at 
the sombre picture drawn by her friend. “It’s 
perfectly true,” she agreed, “that Dick has no 
money. In fact, he’s actually in debt, morally at 
least, for he never could have come to Harvard 
except for his brother. Arthur Meredith has 
done everything for Dick; brought him up, edu¬ 
cated him, and all without having been any too 
well off himself. There’s not one man in a thou¬ 
sand who would have made such a sacrifice. But 
it’s been worth it; Dick is bound to make good. 
I’m sure of it.” 

“Of course you are,” Rosamund conceded, “be¬ 
cause you’re in love with him. And I wish him 
all success. But without money, and without 
any particular pull, I don’t see that the prospect 
is especially rosy.” 


TROUBLE BEGINS 


45 


“Well, for one thing,” Dorothy defended, “he’s 
the best fullback in America. That means he’s 
known from one end of the country to the other, 
and that’s'bound to help him in getting a start. 
At all events, if nothing better offers, he can 
make a lot of money coaching football. He’s 
had two or three wonderful chances already, and 
he’s to be the head of a boys’ camp this summer. 
So we shan’t be paupers. And you are wrong 
about housework, Rosamund. I don’t call it 
drudgery. Housework can be made a fine art, 
like anything else.” 

But Rosamund remained, in her turn, equally 
obdurate. “Theoretically, perhaps,” she coun¬ 
tered, “but not actually. Just wait till you’ve 
tried it. And that’s only part of the sordidness 
of marriage. I’m going to speak plainly, Dorothy. 
There’s the—the physical side of it. There’s 
nothing beautiful about that. You’ve read De 
Maupassant’s “Une Vie”; it’s just as he describes 
it. It’s absolutely loathsome; it degrades us to 
the level of beasts. And children—children them¬ 
selves are lovely, and I adore them—but for the 
woman who bears them in agony—at peril of 
her life—why, it’s too horrible to talk about. 
That’s why I can’t bear to think of—of its hap¬ 
pening to you.” 

The tremor in her voice bore witness to her 
sincerity. Then suddenly her whole expression 
changed, and darting swiftly across the room she 
sank, half in tears, by Dorothy’s side. “Forgive 
me, dear,” she cried. “I must be jealous of los- 


46 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


ing you. It’s been so lovely having you here; 
you’ve been just like a sister. My only sister, 
really, since Stella left home. I can’t bear to let 
you go. To think you’ll be with us only ten 
days more. I’m morbid; I know I am. Excuse 
me, Dorothy, please; it’s only that I’m so fond 
of you.” 

Peace thus restored, Dorothy was quick to 
respond. “And I hate to leave you, Rosamund,” 
she declared. “You couldn’t have been kinder to 
me—you and your mother both. It’s not often 
that a girl who’s alone in the world, as I am, 
comes to a strange city and is welcomed as you 
welcomed me—taken in and made to feel like 
one of the family. I’ll never forget these two 
years. But you mustn’t be so tragic about it, 
dear. We’re not going to live at the North Pole. 
Only a week for our honeymoon, and then we’ll 
settle down here in Cambridge and I shall see 
you and your mother every day. So don’t worry 
about our being separated, and don’t worry about 
me, either. Your prophecies don’t frighten me 
one bit. In fact,” she added, her eyes dancing 
with laughter, as Rosamund rose and began to 
adjust her wrap, “since you’ve spoken about the 
physical side of marriage, let me tell you what 
I think about it—” 

She drew her friend’s head down to hers and 
whispered in her ear, whereupon Rosamund drew 
abruptly back, half shocked, half amused. 
“Aren’t you terrible?” she chided. “Well, so 
much the better for Dick. There, you’re blush- 


TROUBLE BEGINS 


47 


ing. Serves you right. Good-by.” And she de¬ 
parted for the dance, leaving Dorothy to gaze 
alternately into the leaping flames and at the 
diamond sparkling on her finger, until at length 
the church clock in the Square boomed, with dig¬ 
nified deliberation, the hour of eight. 

As the last stroke died away, she heard a light 
and springy footstep on the stairs; an instant 
later a hurried rat-tat-tat sounded at the door, 
and with a smile of pleasure at her lover’s eager¬ 
ness, she rose and bade him enter. If she had 
momentarily flattered herself that she was the 
sole cause of his haste, she was presently to be 
undeceived, for his manner was excited and pre¬ 
occupied, and for the first time since their engage¬ 
ment the kiss with which he greeted her was a 
quite perfunctory salutation. In a few words, he 
told her of the invitation for the week-end, and 
received her pleased assent. Then, without losing 
another moment, he drew a chair beside her own 
and thrust into her hands the paper containing 
the fateful news. 

“What do you think of that?” he demanded 
angrily. “Isn’t that the limit? Athletic heads 
of Harvard, Yale and Princeton! I didn’t know 
there were such darned fools left in the world.” 

Dorothy read and gasped. “Dick!” she cried. 
“Isn’t that terrible? Then we can’t be married 
till next Fall.” 

Meredith’s face was grim. “The devil we 
can’t,” he retorted. “I’d like to know why not. 
It will take more than that to stop us. No, sir; 


48 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


we’ll be married next week, just as we’ve planned. 
And I’ll make out a list,” he added savagely, “of 
everyone in Harvard University connected with 
athletics and I’ll send every mother’s son of ’em 
a card. We’ll see how they like the idea of 
losing their fullback and their best hammer man 
just on account of this fool rule. But I’ll admit,” 
he added boyishly, “that I hate to think of not 
playing next Fall. I believe, if I do say it, that 
I was all set for a big year.” 

He spoke with an air of finality, but if he had 
expected Dorothys’ face to brighten at his words 
he was disappointed. “But we can’t, Dick,” she 
cried. “It’s impossible! You would be despised 
by every Harvard man in America. You would 
never live it down.” 

Meredith frowned. “Nonsense,” he rejoined 
sharply. “It’s not our fault. We’ve made our 
plans; it isn’t up to us to change them.” And 
without waiting for a reply, he went on vehe¬ 
mently, “They’ve certainly got it in for the 
athletes. That old Phi Beta Kappa crowd have 
been sore for years because the ‘H’ men got all 
the limelight, and the scholars didn’t. They may 
be right, too; I’m not saying they’re not. Only 
it isn’t the athletes’ fault; it’s the public’s. But 
the bookworms can’t or they won’t see it. They 
slam the athletes right and left. First they passed 
rules against professionalism and worked them to 
the limit. Then it was scholarship; a man must 
be a student now before he can get his ‘H.’ And 
finally they’ve put through this fool rule about 


TROUBLE BEGINS 


49 


getting married- They’ve always advanced the 
argument that athletics take a lot of your time; 
no one denies that. Now they say that if an 
athlete marries and devotes a proper amount of 
time to his wife, he’ll have no time left for his 
books at all. But that’s not the whole story; 
it’s easy enough for anyone on the inside to read 
between the lines. In the last few years half a 
dozen fellows, all prominent athletes, have got 
married in a more or less sensational way— 
chorus girls and manicurists and the like—and 
that has meant front page headlines and pictures 
and a lot of notoriety of just the kind the col¬ 
leges don’t like. They were bound to stop that, 
and altogether they’ve had just the chance they 
needed to slip the rule across. But I’m not going 
to suffer for other fellows’ mistakes; you can bet 
your life on that.” 

Dorothy had listened patiently to his long 
harangue, but at its conclusion she shook her 
head. “I’m afraid, Dick,” she answered, “that 
you’re prejudiced. I should say, from the Uni¬ 
versity’s point of view, that it was a sensible 
enough rule. But even if it isn’t, people won’t 
see our side of the case at all. If we had an¬ 
nounced our engagement, we might have some 
excuse. But we’ve kept it a secret on purpose. 
I suppose Rosamund’s brother suspects it, from 
seeing you here so much, and from your having 
the run of the house, but Mrs. Leslie and Rosa¬ 
mund are the only people we’ve actually told. 
So the public will read tonight of this new rule 


50 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


of the committee, and then next week, while it s 
still fresh in their minds, would come the an¬ 
nouncement of our marriage. It couldn t look 
worse for us; it would seem like a flat defiance 
of the authorities. And in your case, especially, 
when only three months ago you were picked by 
every paper in the country as All-American full¬ 
back—why, Dick, it would be a scandal. You’d 
lose every friend you have in the world, and when 
you’re graduated and start looking for work, 
you’ll find every door shut in your face. Oh, it’s 
really impossible.” 

Meredith’s face hardened. “I never believed,” 
he responded, “that I’d hear you talking this way. 
I know what most girls are like; their first idea 
is what people will say. But I’ve always imagined 
that you were different, Dorothy; I thought you 
had more nerve.” 

The injustice of his taunt brought a flush to 
her cheek and an angry sparkle to her eye. 
“You’re not fair,” she retorted. “It’s not a case 
of nerve; it’s a question of commonsense. I don’t 
worry much over what people say, but I care a 
lot for what they do. If you were rich, it might 
be different, but it’s only the millionaires who 
can tell the rest of the world where they get off. 
When people are penniless, as we are, they’ve 
got to be worldly-wise; they must seize every 
chance to advance themselves, make every friend 
count. It may be humiliating, but it has to be 
done. And you have such a wonderful opportu¬ 
nity through your football that you can’t be 


TROUBLE BEGINS 


51 


reckless enough to throw it away. We've all 
our fives before as, Dick; surely we can wait a 
few months more/' 

Meredith, as if determined in advance to dis¬ 
regard all she might say, had listened with ill- 
concealed impatience- And now her last words 
gave him further opportunity for complaint. 

"A few months more,” he echoed. “Nothing 
of the sort. It would be almost a year.” And 
in a sudden burst of passion he leaned forward 
and crushed her hands in his. “Dorothy,” he 
cried, “what do you think a man is made of? 
f can't wait; it's asking too much of me. It's 
been bad enough, all these months. You're all 
I think of, dream about, live for. I'm crazy 
about you, dear. And then to ask me to wait 
a year, just on account of playing in a football 
game—why Dorothy, sweetheart, it reallv isn't 
fair.” 

Momentarily, she seemed swayed by the fervor 
of his words, and as he bent forward still further 
until their lips met, he added, “We've never had 
a quarrel yet; we mustn't begin now. I'm sorry 
I showed you the paper at alL Just say we'll 
be married next week, and we won't think of 
it again.” But if, despite her better judgment, 
she had been tempted to give ground, it was for 
an instant only. 

“I don't call this a quarrel,” she parried. “A 
quarrel could only be about our caring for each 
other. This is quite different. You say you love 
me so much that you can't w'ait until next Fall. 


52 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


Believe me, dear, it’s hard for me too, but there 
are different kinds of love, and I think too much 
of you to have you ruin your whole future just 
for present happiness.” 

But her steady opposition only served to fan 
his irritation. “Confound it all,” he cried, “you 
have a frightfully limited horizon. You seem to 
think Cambridge and Boston are the world; that 
if a man is damned here he’s damned in Pata¬ 
gonia or Thibet. I tell you we’ll get married, 
and then, if there’s the storm over it that you 
predict, we’ll pull up stakes and start over again 
somewhere else. The world is big enough.” 

Dorothy could scarcely repress a smile. “That 
sounds very grand and heroic,” she answered, 
“only—traveling in these days is expensive. Just 
where is our money coming from?” 

The question was disconcertingly practical, and 
Meredith could contrive no better answer than 
the palpably vague assertion, “Oh, we’ll find it 
somewhere. There’ll be no trouble about that.” 

“Well, it doesn’t grow on trees,” she reminded 
him, “and you certainly couldn’t ask your brother 
for it. In fact, the thought of him and all he’s 
done for you ought to be enough to make us 
wait. And as for Cambridge and Boston,” she 
added, “I don’t say that they’re the world, but 
I do say that they’re where your friends are and 
where your chance lies, and that it would be the 
very height of folly to throw that chance away.” 

The justice of her words and the difficulty of 
finding an answer stirred his anger to the boil- 


TROUBLE BEGINS 


53 


ing point, and led him to abandon logic altogether. 
“My obligations to my brother,” he retorted 
savagely, “are my business and not yours. And 
I tell you, Dorothy, once and for all, that I don’t 
give one damn what people say or think or do. 
We’re going to be married next week and that’s 
all there is to it. Get me?” 

There was a moment’s silence before she an¬ 
swered evenly, “I understand you, of course. But 
I think you’re talking nonsense. If you mean that 
everyone in the world must do as you wish or 
else not play, that’s ridiculous. I’m doing my 
best to agree with you; I’d give anything if I 
could. But I can’t. And I still believe that for 
us to be married next week would be simply 
suicidal.” 

He rose abruptly to his feet. “Then I’m to 
understand,” he demanded, “that you refuse?” 

For an instant she did not speak. Then, 
realizing that a crisis genuinely threatened, in¬ 
stead of answering him directly, she replied, 
“Dick, there’s no need of this. It’s all a misun¬ 
derstanding. Let’s discuss it again. We must 
be able to agree.” 

To Meredith, gazing at her, she had never 
seemed so beautiful or so fascinating; her very 
independence enhanced her charm. Impulse bade 
him take her in his arms, crush her to his breast 
and rain kisses on her face and throat. But pride 
restrained him, and anger, still smouldering, made 
him the more determined to have his way. 

“Thanks,” he retorted bitterly, “discuss it fur- 


54 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


ther is about the last thing 1 I want to do. I m 
pretty well fed up with the subject.” And hap¬ 
pily unconscious of any lack of originality^ in his 
remark, he added, with conviction, “There’s only 
one thing in the world worth having, Dorothy, 
and that’s love. And since you want to put pru¬ 
dence ahead of it, I’ll tell you this: Ever since 
I’ve known you, I could have married a girl 
whose father has millions; I would have been 
‘made’ for life. But I don’t love her, and I do 
love you. So that’s all there is to it; no ‘safety 
first’ for me. And if I’m willing to look at it 
that way, Dorothy, I think you ought to be will¬ 
ing to do the same.” 

Persuaded by his own eloquence, he settled 
back with an air of triumph, for the logic of his 
argument appeared to him quite irresistible. But 
its effect on the girl was not what he had 
anticipated and hoped. She was regarding him 
with an expression he had never seen on her face 
beforehand she answered him in a voice as cold 
and hard as steel, “Oh, if there’s another girl, 
and with money, by all means take her—and give 
her this.” And she stripped the diamond from 
her finger and held it out for his acceptance. 

Meredith was instantly sobered. This was not 
what he had looked for; matters had already gone 
much too far. “I won’t take it,” he refused 
stoutly, and with an abrupt change from the 
somewhat theatrical attitude which both had un¬ 
consciously assumed, he added, in the most 
matter-of-fact tone that he could muster, “We’ll 


TROUBLE BEGINS 


55 


call this off, Dorothy. It’s been a rotten day for 
both of us. We don’t know what we’re saying. 
We’ll go on this week-end party as if nothing 
had happened, and we won’t mention the subject 
to each other while we’re gone. But we can 
both be thinking hard, just the same, and I’ll 
be around here Monday evening to talk it all 
over. That will be the best way, I’m sure.” 

She reflected for a moment; then walked over 
to the mantel and placed the ring upon it. 
“Very well,” she assented, “until Monday night.” 

To Meredith, watching her closely, it was evi¬ 
dent that neither her tone nor her expression 
had really altered, and her defiance roused in him 
a sudden blind access of passion to which he 
could scarcely have given a name. Three strides 
forward, and as she turned from the mantel she 
found herself clasped in his arms, half-smothered 
in his rough embrace. Nor did he release her; 
never in her life had he drawn her to him like 
this; she felt a sense of being overwhelmed and 
overborne; found herself struggling desperately 
to escape. “Dick,” she gasped, “please—” 

The next instant she found herself free. Mere¬ 
dith, like a man hardly master of himself, stood 
still for a second, face flushed, lips parted; then 
turned and made his way toward the door. But 
at the threshold he paused, a new light in his 
eyes, a new power in his tone. “Till Monday, 
then,” he said. “But I warn you, Dorothy, I 
shan’t change my mind.” 

She stood motionless, grasping the back of the 


56 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


chair for support. She did not speak, nor did 
she lift her eyes to his; her breath came quickly, 
in hurried, strangling gasps. For an instant 
they remained thus; then Meredith turned on 
his heel and left the room. 


IV 


The Course of True Love 

Walter Randall, grotesquely but protectingly 
enveloped in a large checked apron, stood in the 
pantry of the shooting-box, brandishing a damp 
towel. “A little speed, Mrs. Meredith,” he de¬ 
manded cheerily. “Let’s have the rest of those 
dishes; I’ve finished the last lot.” 

Mary Meredith, a woman of thirty, distinctly 
attractive in a somewhat flamboyant and full¬ 
blown style, turned from the sink to answer, 
“There aren’t any more, Walter. We’ve done 
everything but a few pots and pans, and Arthur 
and I will see to those. Run along now, and 
enjoy yourself; you’ve been a good boy to help.” 

In a twinkling, Randall, welcoming his freedom, 
had removed his apron, dried his dripping hands 
and departed, leaving Mary Meredith alone with 
her husband. Arthur Meredith, thin, stooping, 
negligible, with a bored and vaguely unhappy 
expression on his careworn face, lost no time in 
expressing his feelings. “A hell of a week-end,” 
he muttered savagely. “It’s all right for these 
youngsters. But where do I come in? I wash 
dishes enough at home. I might as well be a 
butler, and be done with it.” 

She walked up to him and patted his cheek. 

57 


58 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


'‘Now, now,” she soothed him, “don’t fuss so. 
What are a few dishes, anyway? This is a swell 
place to be in. Young Neville’s name is in the 
society column every week; it’s a great thing 
for us just to be able to say that we’ve been here. 
And Walter Randall and his cousin are both 
swells, too. We’re moving in the best circles.” 

Meredith snarled disagreeably, with the bitter 
scorn of the middle-class man for the aristocrat. 
“Best circles be hanged,” he retorted. “I guess 
we’re as good as they are, if they do belong to 
the Back Bay clubs. All you women are fools 
about this society game; it’s nothing but bunk.” 

“Now, now,” she chided him again. And know¬ 
ing from long experience how best to appease 
her husband, she put her arms caressingly around 
his neck, whispering, “Now don’t be grumpy, 
dear; I’ll make it up to you. Give me a nice 
kiss.” 

Meredith complied, with results apparently 
mollifying to his mood, although, man-like, he 
continued to emit futile vaporings, signifying 
that he was the equal of anyone else and that he 
possessed, moreover, a vast and contemptuous 
disregard for the universe in general. Mary 
Meredith, meantime, smiling a faint, wise smile, 
vigorously engaged the greasy pans. 

Randall had closed the pantry door behind him, 
and had paused for an instant at the entrance to 
the huge living room to gaze approvingly at the 
scene before him. In the mellow lamp light, the 
outlines of the room melted in hovering shadow, 


THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 


59 


while at the farther end a driftwood fire snapped 
and crackled in the big stone fireplace, the cop¬ 
per fastened planks from some old wreck adding, 
in vivid contrast, leaping tongues of blue and 
green to the glowing yellow of the flames. The 
walls were decorated with heads of moose, deer 
and caribou, interspaced with rifles and shot¬ 
guns. On the center table stood magnificently 
mounted specimens of mallards, scoters, brant 
and geese; while from the corner to Randall’s 
right, suspended by slender invisible wires, a 
half dozen black ducks with outstretched necks 
and outspread wings, appeared, even to Ran¬ 
dall’s practised eye, endowed with life, and to 
be swinging once again to the decoys in the 
first faint flush of the gray-white dawn. 

From his scrutiny of the room Randall turned 
his attention to its occupants. Dick Meredith and 
Dorothy were seated on the sofa in front of the 
fire, and at a little table to their right was Stella 
Leslie, the soft lamp light revealing to advantage 
her beautiful coloring and the incisive variance 
of her night-black hair. She reclined at ease in 
her chair, her eyes fixed attentively on Endicott, 
who sat facing her. His tall figure was bent for¬ 
ward, and he was talking, as usual, with vehe¬ 
mence, now and again emphasizing some point 
by the vigorous impact of fist on palm. “Re¬ 
ligion and reform, I’ll wager,” thought Randall 
to himself. “Well, he’s got a good-looking 
audience to preach to, at all events.” And then 
he suddenly lost all interest in the others as a 


60 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


flash of gold in the shadows to the seaward side 
of the room made him aware that Rosamund was 
sitting in the window seat, alone. 

It took him but a moment to reach her side. 
She was gazing pensively into the calm and silent 
beauty of the night. Not a stone’s throw from 
the shooting-box the broad ocean stretched away 
on every side, illimitable, vast, its wide expanse 
unbroken save where here and there low reefs 
loomed dimly through the darkness, black and 
sinister in the gloom, but outlined more dis¬ 
tinctly where the moonlight fell, marking from 
the eastern horizon a broad, untrodden path of 
glittering gold. And as Randall seated himself 
by the girl’s side, even he forgot, for the moment, 
her loveliness, in the glorious splendour of the 
night, and he murmured, half to himself and half 
to her, 

‘The cold chaste Moon, the Queen of Heaven’s bright 
isles, 

Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles; 

That wandering shrine of soft yet icy flame, 

Which ever is transformed, yet still the same, 

And warms not but illumines.’ ” 

As he repeated the lines, the girl turned her 
face toward his, and as he ended she cried in¬ 
genuously, “Oh, how pretty! Aren’t you clever 
to make that up!” 

Randall, his artistic soul outraged at her igno¬ 
rance, hastened to disclaim the impeachment. 
“No, no,” he answered, “that’s not mine. One 


THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 


61 


of the great poets of the world wrote that. That 
is Shelley.” 

She smiled with an eager interest which he 
alas, failed to understand, or rather mistook for 
her delight in the charm of the verse. But he was 
destined to be rudely undeceived, as she cried, 
“Oh yes, I’ve heard about him; we had him at 
school, I think. And there was an awfully funny 
conundrum, you know: What poet reminds you 
of oysters? And the answer was: Shelley. And 
then there was one about the poet that was like 
tough meat; that was Chaucer. And one about a 
fire; that was Robert—” 

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Randall hastily, unable 
to summon even the semblance of a smile. “Very 
amusing, I’m sure. An awfully good riddle— 
tremendously clever.” Then, feeling that his 
idols, the poets, must be protected at any cost, 
and happening to notice the gleaming outlines 
of Neville’s new victrola, he ventured wildly, 
“Are you fond of music, Miss Leslie? We can 
have some, if you are.” 

“I love it,” she assured him. “Is there any 
jazz stuff? We could have a dance.” 

Once more Randall experienced a mental spasm 
of dismay. Dancing, as he was painfully aware, 
was distinctly not his forte. But he had brought 
this on himself, and he arose with commendable 
alacrity and returned presently with a book of 
records for her examination. “Splendid,” she 
cried. “Here is ‘Carolina in the Morning/ and 
‘California Blues’ and ‘Shake Your Feet.’ Let’s 


62 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


put on ‘Carolina’; I always liked that.” And as 
she walked over to the phonograph, record in 
hand, she hummed gaily to herself, 

‘Nothing could be finer 
Than to be in Carolina 
In the mor-or-or-ning.’ 

At the first bars of the music, Meredith and 
Dorothy rose, almost automatically, and with the 
dexterity of long practice swung away down the 
polished floor to the rhythm of the music; Mary 
Meredith and her husband, emerging from the 
pantry, joined them without delay. Randall, 
watching the two couples enviously, regretted too 
late that he had not studied the art of the fox 
trot more assiduously, as Rosamund, her dainty 
foot tapping in time to the music, glanced at him 
questioningly, as though not understanding his 
inaction. “You dance, of course?” she asked. “I 
don’t suppose there’s a college boy in the world 
who doesn’t.” 

“I’m not very good at it,” Randall confessed 
unwillingly. “I don’t believe I’d better try.” 

“Nonsense,” she retorted, “of course you’ll try. 
How can we stand still with that music playing?” 
And the next moment Randall found himself 
doing his brave but clumsy best. He was the 
more acutely conscious of his shortcomings, for 
even he could feel that he was dancing with a girl 
as lissom and graceful as a forest flower nod¬ 
ding and swaying to the caresses of the wind. 


THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 


63 


His feet seemed to be occupying an incredible 
amount of space, and it was with a sensation 
of immense relief that he heard the record come 
to an end. 

“Pm sorry,” he said disconsolately. “I made 
an awful mess of it. My dancing is something 
terrible.” 

“Oh, not as bad as that,” she comforted him. 
“You dance about the same way I play tennis. 
I can keep score and once in a while, if I’m lucky, 
I can get a ball back over the net, but Tm not 
exactly a Suzanne. And it’s the same with your 
dancing. You can go through the motions, all 
right, and you keep time perfectly, but you don’t 
dance as though you enjoyed it; you don’t relax 
enough, don’t let yourself go. But if you would 
only practise a little, you would dance very well 
indeed. I could teach you in no time.” 

“Oh, would you?” he cried gratefully. “That 
would be great. Do you really mean it?” 

“Of course I do,” she answered. “You can drop 
in almost any evening. Dick Meredith is always 
calling on Dorothy, so come along with him and 
I’ll give you some lessons.” And with a spice of 
mischief in her glance, she added, “Anyhow, we 
can practise the holds.” 

Randall, feeling, in the depths of his proper 
Puritan soul, that he should be shocked, was still 
human enough to find that he was experiencing 
emotions ungodly, but distinctly pleasurable. “I’ll 
come,” he assured her, and as he replaced “Caro¬ 
lina” with “Shake Your Feet,” he added, “But 


64 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


I won’t dance again till I’ve had my chance to 
learn; I don’t like to make a fool of myself with 
you unless I have to.” 

“Then I’ll try this one with Dick,” she agreed, 
and they made their way over to the sofa where 
Dorothy and Meredith were seated. 

“Do you care to try it?” Randall asked Dorothy 
with perfunctory politeness, as Meredith and 
Rosamund swept lightly away. To his relief the 
girl leaned back in her seat, and Randall noticed 
that she looked tired and pale. 

“I’ve a bit of a headache,” she confessed. “I 
think I’ll retire early.” And Randall, in defer¬ 
ence to her evident weariness, sat quietly watch¬ 
ing Rosamund swaying lithely in Meredith’s arms. 
In the silence he could hear Stella’s beautifully 
modulated voice, “No, I don’t care for dancing; 
it seems such a waste of time,” and Endicott’s 
approving, “You’re quite right. If half the hours 
that are squandered on dancing and auction and 
mah jong were expended in looking after the sick 
and unfortunate, this would be a different world.” 

Presently the dance ended, and Randall, whose 
eyes had never left Rosamund’s slender figure, 
returned to her side. “Would you like to take 
a walk?” he asked. “It’s too lovely a night to 
stay indoors.” 

“Yes indeed,” she agreed. “I’d love to. Wait 
till I get a wrap.” And in a moment she re¬ 
turned, enveloped to the chin in a fluffy gray 
sweater, which seemed, to Randall’s enamoured 
eyes, to make her even lovelier than before. 


THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 


65 


Outside the shooting-box, the moon, now 
mounted higher in a serene and cloudless sky, 
turned night into day. Absolute stillness reigned, 
save for the ripple of the tiny waves, breaking 
in ordered rhythm on the shore. As they strolled 
slowly down the beach, they could discern, far 
out at sea, the lights on some passing vessel 
twinkling faintly in the distance. Presently they 
came to Neville's dory, safely hauled up beyond 
high water mark, and Randall, stopping and point¬ 
ing to some objects in the bottom of the boat, 
observed, “Look at them. Aren't they works 
of art?" 

Rosamund peered over the rail. “Oh, decoy 
ducks," she exclaimed. “Why, they look almost 
as if they were alive." 

Randall bent over and picked up one of the 
decoys, extending it at arm’s length and inspect¬ 
ing it with the critical gaze of the veteran duck- 
hunter. Fashioned and painted to lure the shel¬ 
drakes which frequented the bay, the wooden 
prototype possessed the slender lines, the ophid¬ 
ian head, and the long, slender bill of the real 
bird, and was indeed, as he had termed it, a 
work of art. 

“There's an old fellow down here," he ex¬ 
plained, “who is a wonder in his way. He has 
studied wild fowl all his life, and he can sell his 
decoys as fast as he makes them. In fact, he's 
usually months behind with his orders. Brant, 
redheads, scoters, sheldrakes—he's a wonder.” 

He replaced the decoy with its companions, and 


66 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


pointed to a dark spot some half a mile or so 
from the shore. “That’s where I’m bound to¬ 
morrow morning,” he explained. “I’m going to 
get up at four, and set these decoys off the ledge. 
There’s no shooting now, because it’s the spring 
of the year, but Neville is wild over photography, 
especially pictures of ducks. He’s just bought a 
wonderful camera—the very latest thing, with a 
shutter that works at some perfectly incredible 
speed. So he’s asked me to get him some pic¬ 
tures tomorrow; and that’s where I’ll be going, 
out under the stars in the darkness—and all 
alone.” He paused a moment, then added diffi¬ 
dently, “I don’t suppose you’d go along?” 

“Of course I would,” she cried. “I think it 
would be lovely. And it would be a wholly new 
experience. I’ve never done anything like it.” 

To Randall’s eyes, the moonlight seemed sud¬ 
denly to grow even more brilliant. “Aren’t you 
nice?” he cried enthusiastically. “I didn’t be¬ 
lieve girls these days had enough sporting blood 
for anything like that.” 

“Well, I have, anyway,” she retorted. “Only 
wake me in plenty of time. I shall need half an 
hour to dress.” 

They walked on along the ridge of the beach, 
which stretched below them in a long, gradual 
curve, toward the black rim of the ocean. “We 
might sit down here,” he proposed, “and be as 
comfortable as you please. Here, I’ll spread my 
coat.” 

“Splendid,” she agreed, and a moment later, 


THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 


67 


“Oh, this is heavenly. The ridge slopes like an 
easy-chair.” And leaning back, she half closed 
her eyes and gazed straight up into the heavens. 

Randall, in turn, gazed straight at her. Little 
more than a boy and with an unusual purity of 
soul, he was, as yet, unscathed by passion’s 
scorching fires, and the evening had brought to 
him a depth of sensation hitherto unknown. 
Meredith, congenitally a sensualist, could not, in 
a similar situation, have kept his hands off the 
girl. But Randall, pure in heart and thought, 
was content to look on this golden-haired, azure¬ 
eyed maiden as on some sacred work of God, 
embodying all the virgin loveliness of life, un¬ 
spoiled, untarnished by contact with the world. 
And presently, hardly knowing how to put his 
meaning into words, he ventured, “I’m awfully 
glad you came down here.” 

She reopened her eyes, and gazed at him 
frankly, as though seeking to read his mind. Then, 
as if satisfied, she answered softly, “I’m glad, 
too.” 

Silence fell. Then she resumed, “You were dis¬ 
gusted with me when we were in the house— 
about the poetry, I mean.” 

Randall, startled at her penetration, protested 
evasively, “Disgusted? Of course I wasn’t. 
Nothing of the sort.” 

“Well, never mind the exact word,” she per¬ 
sisted. “You weren’t pleased, anyway; anyone 
could see that. So I thought I’d explain. When 
you found me at the window, I was dreaming_ 


68 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


millions of miles away. And when you repeated 
those verses, I spoke without thinking; if I had 
stopped to think, of course I should have realized 
it was a quotation. I’ve never had a chance 
to read a great deal—studying stenography and 
reading don’t go well together—but I didn’t 
want you to think I was an absolute fool.” 

Randall experienced acute embarrassment. “Oh 
please don’t,” he protested. “I know I’m a freak 
about poetry; most people don’t care for it at 
all. But it’s my way—or one of my ways—of 
getting at the beauty that’s in the world, just as 
one of your ways is being such an exquisite 
dancer. And if it wouldn’t bore you,” he added, 
“we might make a bargain. Every time you 
give me a lesson in dancing, I’ll give you one in 
poetry in exchange.” 

“That would be splendid,” she assented. “That 
makes me feel happy again.” Then added, with 
true feminine tact, “Tell me, Mr. Randall, do you 
write verse yourself?” 

“Oh, I’m no poet,” he disclaimed. “I haven’t 
the divine fire. But it’s a fascinating study, even 
the technical part of it. I did write a sonnet the 
other night that I thought wasn’t wholly bad. 
It was dedicated to Youthful Manhood; I wrote 
it under the influence of a night like this; and the 
last two lines were, 

‘Gaze heavenward, nor bow the suppliant knee 
To rose-lipped Lilith from the lupanar/ 


THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 


69 


I could talk for an hour on that last line—the 
power of alliteration and assonance and vowel 
music and a dozen other things that would put 
the ordinary mortal to sleep. And I’m afraid even 
you would find them terribly dull. ,, 

“No, I shouldn’t,” she protested, “if I only had 
the brains to understand them. But tell me this, 
please. I know in a general way about Lilith, 
but exactly who was she?” 

Randall laughed. “I don’t suppose anyone 
knows exactly,” he answered. “As I understand 
it, she was the original Vamp’; half woman and 
half devil; and she ‘kept company’ with Adam 
until Eve came along. Then, of course, it was 
the old story; Adam became a respectable mar¬ 
ried man and poor Lilith was sent about her 
business.” 

“What a shame,” the girl demurred laughingly. 
“That wasn’t fair in the least. She never did 
anything to get Adam into trouble, and just see 
what a mix-up Eve made.” 

“Yes,” he assented in similar vein, “and just 
see what a mix-up the daughters of Eve have 
been making ever since. It’s really too bad.” 

“Isn’t it?” she agreed, and glancing up at him 
provocatively, she added, “Nothing but danger 
when girls are around. It’s a mistake to have 
anything to do with them.” 

Randall, looking down at her as she reclined 
against the curve of the beach, was conscious of 
new and overmastering emotions, and with a 
daring quite foreign to him he retorted, “I don’t 


70 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


agree with you. To admire a girl may be dan¬ 
gerous, but it’s worth it all the same.” 

She smiled up at him with a glance half shy, 
half bold, and wholly enchanting, answering him 
with the very words he had used a few moments 
before, “Aren’t you nice?” 

“No, I’m not,” he responded, “but I wish I 
were.” He leaned forward impulsively. “And I 
wish more than that. I wish—” 

But his wish, whatever it was, was never reg¬ 
istered, for at that moment they heard the sound 
of approaching footsteps, and an instant later 
Stella Leslie appeared on the ridge above them, 
her form, in -the moonlight, etched sharply 
against the western sky. 

“Hullo,” she hailed. “Don’t you two want 
company?” 

Randall jumped to his feet. “Yes, indeed,” he 
answered politely. “Here’s a seat. Come and 
join us.” 

The girl laughed mockingly. “Your manners 
are wonderful,” she observed, “but don’t worry; 
I’m not going to stop. If you see Dick, tell him 
I’m down by that big boulder. And all alone. 
Don’t forget to tell him that. A lonely maiden, 
waiting for some true knight to come along and 
comfort her. Bye-bye, children; behave your¬ 
selves,” and she strolled on down the beach 
toward the shelter of the huge rock which stood 
out conspicuously in the silvery light. 

Randall resumed his seat. “I thought Dorothy 
was Dick’s girl,” he ventured. 


THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 


71 


“She is,” Rosamund answered. “But I think 
they must have quarreled; they don’t seem to be 
hitting it off this trip. Stella and Dick did have 
quite an affair two years ago, before she left 
home, and before Dorothy came to live with us. 
But it never came to anything.” 

Once more there was a sound of footsteps on 
the ridge above them, and they turned to find 
Dick Meredith gazing amiably down upon them. 
“Nice and cosy,” he remarked. “Seen anything 
of Stella?” 

“Down the beach a little way,” Randall 
answered. “Try the big boulder. That’s where 
she said she was going.” 

“Thanks,” Meredith rejoined, and without fur¬ 
ther delay walked on down the beach. 

In the lee of the big rock he found the girl 
seated with her back against the stone, the moon¬ 
light falling fairly on her upturned face. Nor did 
she turn at his approach, but continued to gaze 
dreamily out over the sleeping sea. Meredith’s 
face, as he looked at her, betrayed mingled ad¬ 
miration and emotions called up by thoughts of 
the past which he would gladly have suppressed. 
But his tone, when he broke the silence, was 
ironic and cool. 

“If my poetic and pure-minded roommate were 
here in my place,” he said, “he would rave about 
a symphony in black and gold, and call your 
attention, if he had sufficient courage, to the 
lovely picture you make, with the radiance of 


72 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


Selene revealing - your dark and splendid beauty. 
Undoubtedly, also, he would quote Tennyson: 

‘A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes, 

Brow-bound with burning gold.’ 

And he would be quite right, too; it all fits 
exactly, except the part about the gold. And 
perhaps we’ll have that a little later, Stella. 
How has the evening gone?” 

“How can I tell?” she answered somewhat 
petulantly. “I know it’s cost me a number of 
drinks and some good smokes and made me 
irritable in consequence. But whether my meek 
and maidenly behaviour has impressed Sir Gala- 
had, I can’t tell. It isn’t time to try experiments 
yet. But I have an idea,” she added thought¬ 
fully, “that in spite of his being hipped on re¬ 
ligion, he’s perfectly human. I think I caught a 
glance or two which told me that he wasn’t all 
pure spirit. But perhaps I flatter myself. Any¬ 
way, I’ve had a ghastly evening; and such a peach 
of a night, too.” 

He seated himself beside her, and quite as a 
matter of course took her hand and raised it to 
his lips, perfunctorily caressing its slender white¬ 
ness. She smiled, half contemptuous, half 
amused. “Influence of the moon,” she observed. 
“Don’t you ever get enough of that sort of thing, 
Dick? I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime; 
it nauseates me.” 

He released her hand, looking at her curiously. 


THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 


7«3 


“I suppose that’s so,” he said thoughtfully. “Tell 
me, Stella, what’s your friend’s name?” 

“Don’t be insulting, Dick,” she answered evenly. 
“I haven’t any friend. I’m housekeeper for an 
old married couple who are away a great deal 
of the time and pay me to take care of their 
flat for them. It’s a highly respectable con¬ 
nection.” 

Meredith laughed sardonically. “Listen to her 
tell it,” he observed. “You’re a wonder to make 
your family believe that. Rosamund is perfectly 
innocent about your job. Dorothy’s wise, I sup¬ 
pose. Come on, Stella, we’re old pals. What’s 
the fellow’s name, and what does he do for a 
living?” 

A shrug was her only answer. Then, as if to 
divert him from an unpleasant topic, she volun¬ 
tarily took his hand in hers. “You know, darling,” 
she murmured mockingly, “that you were the 
only man I ever really loved. Still, we’d better 
be careful. What if Dorothy should happen 
along? She doesn’t know the whole of her dear 
boy’s past.” 

He frowned savagely. “We’re not hitting it 
off this trip,” he rejoined shortly. 

“So I’ve noticed,” she responded. “What’s 
the trouble ? The ordinary brand of lovers’ 
quarrel ? She didn’t like your necktie, or you 
didn’t admire her new hat?” 

“It’s a lot worse than that,” he growled. “This 
is something serious, and infernally hard to work 
out. I’m about ready to quit living tonight.” 


74 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


“Oh, it’s a hard world,” she answered lightly. 
“No doubt of it. I wonder, though, whether you 
really love Dorothy, Dick? Or is it just what 
you used to feel for me two years ago? What 
a kid you were—you made the original cave man 
look like a college professor.” 

Meredith sighed. “I’m not proud of it,” he 
remonstrated. “The Lord made me; it’s His 
fault. I’d be much happier if women didn’t set 
me on fire, like matches and gunpowder. But 
as to Dorothy, of course I love her. For one 
thing, I’m crazy about her physically—well, you 
know—there wouldn’t be any love without that. 
And then she’s such a good little sport—honest 
and clean about everything; the kind that can 
look you right in the eye. I don’t know that 
anyone has ever given a perfect definition of love, 
but when you feel passion for a girl, and at the 
same time respect her as something sacred, and 
besides all that, you’re good pals and are happy 
just doing things together, why I guess that’s 
as near love as most of us manage to come.” 

The girl’s lip curled. “Yes, I believe you,” 
she assented, “but how much of this respect do 
you find these days ? My theory of love and 
marriage is this. A man wants a girl—wants her 
body. If she’ll give it to him, or he can buy it, 
that’s good enough for him. If he finds she isn’t 
that kind, and he can’t get her any other way, 
and he actually can’t rest without her, why then 
he marries her. After the novelty has worn off, 
he goes with somebody else outside, and if she 


THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 


75 


finds out, and really cares about him, then he’s 
made her life a hell. That’s about the size <lf it, 
Dick. Men are a lot oisensual brutes.” 

“You’re foo cynical,’’ answered. “Love 
isn’t as rare as you think.” 

“But it is,” she insisted. “This is the trouble, 
Dick; we all like to fool ourselves, to fool our¬ 
selves deliberately. You like to think you’ve 
placed Dorothy on a shrine, and that she’s the 
only girl in the world for you. But right down at 
bottom, it’s nine-tenths passion, and the other 
tenth about respect and regard is just a little 
polite fiction of your own. If you really loved 
her, you wouldn’t have anything to do with any 
other girl, you wouldn’t have a thought that 
wasn’t for Dorothy. But when I gave you the 
eye in that boathouse just now, when Dorothy 
said she was going to bed, you followed me out 
here just like a little lamb—Dorothy or no 
Dorothy. And just because you were crazy 
about me once; just because you’ve kissed me 
before this, and done more than that, too, why 
now you can’t resist temptation. See, I turn 
around like this—” she suited the action to the 
word—“and I put my face back just a little in 
the moonlight like this, and smile just a little— 
like this—and I tell you that Dorothy or no 
Dorothy you are going to do what any man 
would do. You’re going to put your arms 
around me, and kiss me, and tell me I’m the 
most wonderful girl—” 

Meredith, like a man under a spell, hardly 


76 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


waiting for her concluding words, had bent 
quickly forward and clasped her in his arms, 
when, like a flash, she leaped to her feet, crying 
in tones of mingled anger and alarm, “How dare 
you, Mr. Meredith! Let me go! I thought you 
were a gentleman!” 

Meredith, absolutely dumfounded, stood gazing 
at her in amazement. “What fool game is this—?” 
he began; then stopped short as a step sounded 
behind him and the tall figure of Franklin Endi- 
cott loomed beyond the shadow of the boulder. 
In a twinkling Stella was at his side, one hand 
clasping his arm appealingly as she glanced back 
at Meredith in pretended terror. “Oh please,” 
she gasped, “I’m so frightened. He tried—” 

“All right, all right,” Endicott soothed her pro- 
tectingly, “you’re safe now.” He disengaged her 
hand and stepped forward menacingly. “Mere¬ 
dith,” he accused, “you’re a cur; a miserable cur. 
Put up your hands!” 

Meredith, in a daze, complied mechanically; to 
his confused mind connected thought was impos¬ 
sible. A great rage against Stella, admiration 
for her cleverness, an hysterical amusement as 
he realized how Fate had played into their hands 
—under the pressure of all these emotions he 
was unprepared to hold his own against this huge 
avenger of innocence, single purposed, relentless 
in his chivalrous anger, and not only Meredith’s 
physical superior but a boxer of note and a 
heavy-weight champion in his day. There could 
be only one outcome in a struggle between two 


THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 


77 


such adversaries, and almost simultaneously with 
the demand a terrific blow crashed home on 
Meredith’s cheek and he measured his length on 
the stones. 

Endicott turned to the girl. “Will you walk 
back with me?” he asked briefly, and with a 
murmured word of thanks she went with him, 
finding time, however, to throw Meredith, 
struggling to his feet, a look in which a dozen 
messages of humor, sympathy, caution and elation 
were blended. Meredith, once more erect, gazed 
after the rescuer and the rescued, and then felt 
his swelling cheek gingerly. “Confound the 
girl!” he muttered, then added, philosophically, 
“Well, it’s my own fault; it serves me right.” 


V 


Runs True to Form 

Very quietly Randall opened the door of his 
room and tiptoed out into the hall, his flashlight 
casting a level, luminous beam, like that of a 
miniature lighthouse, through the darkness. At 
the top of the stairway he paused for a moment, 
feeling tentatively for the step, his sense of touch 
temporarily blunted by his heavy rubber hunting 
boots which reached almost to his hips. In the 
dead silence the ticking of the clock on the living 
room mantel below came distinctly to his ears, 
and as he cautiously began his descent, the deli¬ 
cate chiming of the hour—four silvery strokes— 
told him that he was in ample season. 

The descent accomplished without mishap, he 
made his way warily across the living room to the 
pantry, keeping a watchful outlook for chairs and 
tables lurking in unexpected locations. In the 
pitch-blackness of the shooting-box, the chill 
incertitude of the early hours assailed him like a 
visible foe, and he began gloomily to question 
the likelihood of Rosamund’s adherence to their 
plan. “She won’t do it,” he concluded. “Girls 
are always like that. She’ll never have the cour¬ 
age to get up at this hour; there isn’t a chance 
in the world.” And at the thought of being thus 
78 


RUNS TRUE TO FORM 


79 


deserted, he found himself, to his own surprise, 
experiencing a sense of the keenest disappoint¬ 
ment. For years he had gone gunning alone, 
really enjoying, like most true hunters, the soli¬ 
tary aspect of the sport. But this morning he 
felt, unaccountably, the need of companionship, 
and this fancied fickleness on Rosamund’s part, 
this imagined failure to respond to her obliga¬ 
tions, filled him with deepest gloom. “That’s 
the trouble with them,” he muttered half aloud, 
making a confidant of the flock of ghostly wild 
fowl in motionless flight above his head. “Girls 
are all right in their way, but you can’t depend 
on them the way you can on a man. You can’t 
ever tell what they mean to do next.” 

Thus moodily moralizing, he entered the pantry 
and abstracted from the ice chest sandwiches, 
fruit and a thermos of coffee, the chill of his sur¬ 
roundings causing a still further depression in 
his spirits, so that it was with the feeling that 
he was performing a purely perfunctory task that 
he bent his steps in the direction of Rosamund’s 
room. And then, in the twinkling of an eye, his 
whole mood changed. For from the crevice be¬ 
tween door and sill there issued an unmistakable 
radiance, not only symbolically cheering, but 
practically reassuring and pleasing to the eye. 
His knock was of the lightest, but hardly had it 
ceased when the gleam in her room was ex¬ 
tinguished, the door swung open, and in the faint 
circle of his flashlight she stood upon the 
threshold, ethereal, angelic, own sister to the 


80 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


Naiads of the reed-fringed streams and the 
Dryads of the dim, cool forest shades. So lovely, 
indeed, did she appear in the dim light that it 
was half reluctantly, and yet eagerly as well, 
that Randall swung his torch to reveal her 
dressed faultlessly for the trip, her short skirt 
lending her an air irresistibly boyish, an effect 
heightened by the gray sweater she had worn 
on the preceding evening, its clinging texture 
revealing the girlish slenderness of her figure, 
its color setting off to perfection the golden 
glory of her hair. For an instant she stood 
silent, motionless, the incarnation of radiant 
youth; then, advancing a step, she put out her 
hand in greeting, whispering, “Good morning, 
poet.” 

He took her hand, and the touch of her fingers 
thrilled electrically through every fibre of his 
being. Somehow he managed to answer in the 
same hushed tone, “Good morning, dancer; you’ve 
made a world’s record. You’re the only girl who 
was ever ready before the time.” 

She disengaged her hand from his unconscious¬ 
ly too ardent pressure. “I heard you moving 
around upstairs,” she explained, “so I didn’t 
wait to be called. I haven’t slept much, anyway. 
The moonlight was too wonderful; I couldn’t 
bear to miss it.” 

He nodded understanding^. “Same here,” he 
answered. “I think all of us are really ‘minions 
of the moon.’ If you are still in an exalted and 
poetic mood, it seems like sacrilege to refer to 


RUNS TRUE TO FORM 


81 


food, and yet we have to live. Shall we break¬ 
fast here, or on the Ledge?” 

“Oh, on the Ledge, by all means,” she an¬ 
swered. “I couldn’t think of stopping for it now. 
This is a real adventure for me; I don’t want to 
waste a moment.” 

An instant later the door of the shooting-box 
had closed behind them, and they stood in a 
world of darkness and profound silence. Above 
them glowed the stars, like sentinels guarding the 
slumbers of the earth. From the ocean, 
stretching away into immeasurable space, a faint, 
cool air stole toward the land; along the beach 
sounded the soothing susurrus of the waves. 
Already, in the far distant east, a low red line 
heralded the coming of the day, and suddenly, 
from a thicket near at hand, sounded the call 
of a song sparrow to its mate, with its prelude 
of three flute-like notes, followed by a joyous, 
delicate ripple of silvery song. Randall laid a 
hand on Rosamund’s arm. “There it is,” he whis¬ 
pered. “You can’t put it in words, but there’s 
something far above all my poetry and all your 
dancing; there’s the whole wonder and mystery 
and beauty of the world—there’s the moon and 
the sea and the eastern sky—all in that one 
bird’s song.” 

She made a mute gesture of assent. “I know,” 
she answered softly, and in silence they made 
their way along the, beach. There, after a brief 
search in the darkness, they found the dory, and 
a moment later, with Rosamund tucked snugly 


82 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


in the stern, Randall had taken his seat on the 
forward thwart, shipped his oars, and was send¬ 
ing the boat along with steady, powerful strokes 
straight out to sea. 

Presently, in the gloom behind them, there 
sounded in the brooding stillness, shrill and de¬ 
fiant, the crowing of a cock. “Ah, just listen to 
that,” cried Randall. “There sounds what Long¬ 
fellow calls the ‘trumpet of Alectryon.’ Do you 
know the story?” 

“No,” Rosamund answered frankly, “I don’t. 
Alectryon is a perfect stranger to me. Tell me 
about him—if it was a ‘him.’ ” 

“Yes, it was,” Randall responded. “It all hap¬ 
pened thousands of years ago, when even the 
gods were young. Venus, you know, was the 
wife of Vulcan, who was the official armorer of 
the whole Olympian aristocracy. You can see,” 
he added whimsically, “just how the trouble 
began. Mars, the war god, must have been 
Vulcan’s best customer, always wanting a sword 
sharpened or a shield repaired. And probably 
one evening he was down at the shop, watching 
Vulcan hammering away at the forge, when 
Venus came along to tell her husband that sup¬ 
per was ready—nectar and ambrosia waiting on 
the table. Mars, of course, like all soldiers, must 
have had an eye for the girls, and Venus doubt¬ 
less must have compared this magnificent man 
with her lame and grimy husband. So they started 
a flirtation, and finally, to put it vulgarly, they 
‘made a date,’ Mars prudently employing a youth 


RUNS TRUE TO FORM 


83 


named Alectryon to keep watch and warn the 
lovers before the coming of the dawn. An ex¬ 
cellent scheme, but poor Alectryon, having, as 
you might say, only a thinking part in the drama, 
fell sound asleep, and when Apollo, the sun god, 
drove forth in his immortal chariot, he discovered 
the guilty pair, and there followed a scandal that 
fairly shook Olympus. Mars, quite naturally, 
was much incensed with Alectryon, and to re¬ 
venge himself he turned the youth into a cock. 
And so the poor boy has been doing his best 
ever since to be strictly ‘on the job’ in the hope 
of atoning for his social indiscretion. Quite a 
story, isn’t it?” 

“It’s delightful,” Rosamund agreed, “and it 
goes to prove what we were saying last night, 
when we were talking about Adam and Eve. 
Men should beware of the ladies. It makes me 
think of the old story about the man who jumped 
down a well. Nobody could understand his rash 
act, until some unfeeling cynic suggested that 
there was probably a woman at the bottom 
of it.” 

Randall laughed. “That’s good,” he admitted. 
Then, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, 
he added, “Well, we’ve arrived. The old rock 
is still here.” 

Before them in the darkness, the low reef 
loomed grimly to the eye, its upper portions a 
reddish brown, but black below with rockweed 
and thickly encrusted with innumerable barnacles. 
As they skirted its south-east flank, Randall ex- 


84 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


plained, “This is the science of sheldrake shoot¬ 
ing. At the northerly point of the Ledge, there’s 
a shallow bay, where the ducks come to feed. 
We’ll set the decoys there, then we’ll moor the 
dory close to the southerly point, and we’ll land 
on the Ledge and hide ourselves as near the 
decoys as we can. And if I’m not greatly 
mistaken, we’ll get some first-class pictures. It’s 
a wonderful morning for a flight.” 

Twenty minutes later, they were ensconced 
behind a shelf-like rock within twenty yards of 
the little flock of decoys, which rose and fell, 
as if alive, to every motion of the waves. The 
darkness had visibly lightened; the stars were 
paling, and in the east the narrow band of red 
had widened, spreading higher and higher and 
finally dissolving into delicate pink and gold 
against a background of clearest blue. Suddenly 
Randall laid a hand on the girl’s arm. “Look,” 
he whispered, “there they come!” And a second 
later the girl heard, in the stillness, the sound 
that thrills the hunter’s heart, the “wh-wh-wh- 
wh-wh” of rapid wings. Then, in the faint light, 
four or five shadowy forms swept quickly by the 
point of the Ledge, low to the water, and again 
were lost to sight. 

“They didn’t see the decoys,” Randall ex¬ 
plained. “A little too dark yet. There will be 
more, though. Hullo, there’s the sun!” 

Above the skyline to the eastward the great 
ball of fire blazed majestically into view, restor¬ 
ing, with its splendor, life and light and hope to 


RUNS TRUE TO FORM 


85 


an awakening world. Randall watched it eagerly 
until it hung, in unclouded beauty, clear of the 
horizon; then, with dazzled eyes, he turned to 
his companion, “That repays us, doesn’t it?” 
he asked. “That’s worth the early rising and the 
darkness. We’re seeing now what Darley saw 
when he wrote: 

‘Behold the world’s great wonder 
The sovereign star arise! 

’Midst Ocean’s sweet low thunder, 

Earth’s silence and the skies.’ 

We’re seeing what Browning saw: 

‘But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, 

Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, 

Rose, reddened, and its seething breast 
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the 
world.’ 

We are with Shakespeare himself: 

‘Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, 
Kissing with golden face the meadows green. 
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.’ 

“Oh, it’s really criminal, the way people neglect 
the beauty in the world. Just imagine how few—” 
But in the midst of his impassioned harangue 
she interrupted him, crying softly, “Yes, I know, 
but look! look! your camera, quick!” 

Past the point of the Ledge came a pair of 
sheldrakes, male and female, instantly checking 


86 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


their rapid flight as they caught sight of the 
little flock of decoys apparently feeding so peace¬ 
fully in the shelter of the miniature bay. With 
set wings, they skimmed on for a second longer, 
then turning in a wide circle, they came sailing 
in toward the rock, bold and beautiful, the very 
incarnation of life and grace. Randall, with even 
greater eagerness than if his camera had been 
replaced by a gun, sighted, and there followed 
the almost inaudible click of the shutter. The 
birds, approaching nearer and nearer to the water, 
barely cleared the decoys and slid smoothly into 
the calm sea, the impact of their bodies sending 
up a miniature fountain of glittering spray. For 
a moment they remained motionless with alertly 
raised heads glancing warily about them, the 
male resplendent in his plumage of green and 
white and chestnut, the female modest and un¬ 
obtrusive in sober brown. Then, as if assured 
that no danger threatened them, they swam 
leisurely in toward the rock, from time to time 
thrusting their long necks under water in search 
of food. Presently the male, obsessed by other 
thoughts, made a rapid and amorous rush toward 
the female, who as quickly avoided him, and then, 
as his attentions became more insistent, threw 
herself half out of water and dived so smoothly 
and beautifully as to leave scarcely a ripple 
behind. Instantly the male followed suit and a 
few moments later both emerged from the water 
on the wing, and made off again down the shore. 

So obvious was the purport of this elemental 


RUNS TRUE TO FORM 


87 


courtship that Randall and Rosamund turned to 
each other with an instinctive smile of under¬ 
standing. “There it is again,” he exclaimed. 
“Adam and Eve; Mars and Venus; the man who 
jumped down the well; now it’s the wild fowl. 
Always sex, wherever you turn.” 

“Yes,” she assented, “but if you want to know 
the unromantic truth, another primitive emotion 
is troubling me at the present moment much 
more than love. In other words, I am tremen¬ 
dously hungry.” 

“Same here,” he assented, and hastened to 
produce the breakfast of sandwiches, fruit and 
coffee. Then, hunger satisfied, they lay back at 
ease in the warmth of the sun, around them a 
glory of blue sea, above them the cloudless azure 
of the sky. And thereupon the luckless Randall, 
supremely happy and contented with the world, 
from a hundred possible subjects of conversation 
selected the very one he should have avoided. 
“You say,” he questioned, “that you’re studying 
stenography ?” 

“Yes,” she answered, “or rather I’ve finished 
studying it. I have a position already, but my 
employer was called away on a three months’ 
business trip, so I shan’t start working until the 
first of June. I’m glad, too, because I have an 
invitation from an aunt in New York to visit her, 
and I’m going to have one last good vacation 
before I become a real business woman.” 

At her words, Randall experienced a vague 
feeling of disapproval. Hardly able, as yet, to 


88 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


analyze his emotions, he felt not only disappoint¬ 
ment but even a distinct sense of injury at the 
idea of her going away for three months. Even 
more distasteful was the knowledge that she was 
going to work for some man. “So you really 
have a job?” he asked. 

“Yes, wasn’t I lucky?” she answered. “In a 
splendid office, too. Edmund Hamlin & Com¬ 
pany, Leather Goods. And Mr. Hamlin is just 
lovely. Big and handsome, and dresses beauti¬ 
fully, just like a movie star. He engaged me him¬ 
self. And there were lots of girls after the posi¬ 
tion, too, some of them with plenty of experience. 
But he picked me. It must have been my lucky 
day.” 

Once again, Randall was conscious of a feeling 
of irritation, and like a flash, he recalled his first 
glimpse of Rosamund in the Square, and Mere¬ 
dith’s callous comment: “She’ll make a nice little 
peach for some kind employer.” He frowned, 
and then gave audible vent to his dissatisfaction. 
“I hate to think,” he exclaimed, “of your pound¬ 
ing away on a typewriter in an office. That 
doesn’t seem the kind of life for you.” 

He gazed at her moodily as he spoke, but she 
smiled back at him cheerfully enough. “Well, 
I don’t say it’s ideal myself,” she answered lightly, 
“but we have to live. I’m sorry, of course, you 
don’t like the idea, but I don’t see what we’re 
going to do about it, unless you’ve something 
better to suggest.” 

Meredith, meeting her glance, was conscious 


RUNS TRUE TO FORM 


89 


of a sudden thrill. Surely, an obvious enough 
opening. “You might marry me instead.” Those 
were the words he wished to say, yet somehow 
they would not come. The old, conservative 
New England prudence, persisting through gen¬ 
erations of ancestors, bridled his tongue. And 
between the two extremes of speech and silence 
there seemed to him no middle course. Thus, 
awkwardly and ingloriously, he transferred his 
gaze to the toes of his boots, until presently a 
somewhat inane compromise occurred to him, 
and he asked tentatively and ingenuously, “Did 
you ever think of—of getting—married?” 

On the girl, proud of her evident conquest of 
the evening before, a conquest endlessly reviewed 
through a night of moonlit musings, Randall’s 
halting words and hesitancy of manner could 
have but one effect. Unprepared, faltering, re¬ 
linquishing his opportunity, the hero of her 
dreams had vanished utterly. And thereupon, 
with feminine adaptability, she had instantly 
shifted her own position and with the most 
charming and natural laugh in the world, an¬ 
swered, “Getting married? I should say not. 
What an idea!” 

But the mirth, such as it was, was wholly on 
her side, for unwittingly she had touched upon 
the greatest weakness in Randall’s nature—an 
extreme sensitiveness wherever he was personally 
concerned. And instantly, unmindful of his own 
lack of response, he became a prey to deep re¬ 
sentment. He himself had slept little the night 


90 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


before, persistent visions of Rosamund’s face and 
voice floating rapturously through his waking 
dreams. But now—how outrageously the girl 
had treated him! She had led him on, encouraged 
him, had apparently felt for him something 
deeper than mere liking—and now she professed 
that the idea of marriage appealed to her merely 
as a joke! So that his expression was positively 
savage as he asked gruffly, “Well, why not? 
Most people do get married. Why shouldn’t 
you ?” 

With the true feline instincts of her sex, she 
hastened remorselessly to deepen the wound. 
“Oh, of course,” she assented, “if the right man 
ever comes along. Someone like Mr. Hamlin, 
for instance; I do wish you could see him. And 
they say he’s a wonderful dancer, too. But I’ll 
never have a chance like that. And so far I 
haven’t met my fate. Perhaps I’m hard to 
please.” 

Randall felt the universe tumbling about him. 
Here, in five mysterious minutes, everything had 
changed. The joy of living, the glory of sea and 
sky, his romantic dreams—all of these had van¬ 
ished, leaving him alone in a bare, bleak and 
desolate world. Yet with the desperation of a 
man condemned he sought to make assurance 
sure. “You mean,” he asked with the most in¬ 
tense earnestness and deliberation, “that your idea 
of a husband is a good-looking man who dresses 
beautifully and who will take you out to dinners 
and dances every night? Is that about the idea?” 


RUNS TRUE TO FORM 


91 


She beamed upon him in naive delight. “Why 
you’re wonderful,” she cried. “You really are a 
mind-reader. Yes, that’s it exactly. And I, 
she continued gaily, “have the gift of second sight 
too. I can pick out your wife for you. She will 
be tall and dark, very learned and fond of poetry, 
probably a Wellesley graduate. And when you 
propose to her, you will sink on one knee and tell 
her you think you can make her happy, and she 
will say she appreciates the honor, and you will 
kiss her hand most properly—and there you are. 
And you will go to lectures every night, and be 
awfully congenial, I’m sure.” 

To a more experienced listener, her laughter 
might have sounded forced, but to the dejected 
Randall it rang humiliatingly true. He rose 
abruptly to his feet, indicating, with a gesture, 
a low bank of grayish clouds rapidly advancing 
from the south and already dulling the keen edges 
of the sunbeams. “We’d better be getting in,” 
he said mechanically, “before it rains. The wind 
is hauling to the south’ard all the time.” And 
as the girl also rose to her feet, he added with 
grim politeness, “Better take my hand. This 
r'ockweed is treacherous.” 

“Oh, thanks,” she responded, still the embodi¬ 
ment of cheerfulness, “I can get along perfectly 
by myself.” And silently and unromantically they 
slipped and slid over the miniature hills and val¬ 
leys of the Ledge until the boat was reached. 

Still without speaking, Randall rowed around 
to the northerly point, hastily gathered up the 


92 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


decoys and tossed them, one by one, with a 
violence quite unnecessary, into the bottom of 
the dory. Then they started for shore. Even 
though he sat facing his companion, their eyes 
did not meet, but from an occasional oblique 
glance in her direction he could see that all 
traces of laughter had left her face. She looked 
to Randall, even in his bitter dejection, prettier 
than ever, and somehow she appeared to him also 
vaguely young and wistful, so that in spite of 
this tragic ending to his romance he felt the 
wish, without the faintest trace of passion, to 
take her in his arms and comfort her as if she 
had been a child. A dozen times he longed to 
stop rowing and say, “Rosamund, this is all a 
mistake. I love you. Will you marry me?” 
And a dozen times he saw, in his mind’s eye, 
huge headlines in the Boston papers: “BACK 
BAY CLUBMAN WEDS STENOGRAPHER!” 
It was as though, in the dim recesses of his brain, 
he could hear two voices, the one eager, young, 
impetuous, “And why not?”—the other old and 
worldly wise, prudent with the conventionality of 
established precedent, “But it isn’t done.” And 
Randall rowed on. 

Rosamund, too, was busy with her thoughts, 
for the change in Randall’s attitude was so pro¬ 
found as to be positively startling. “I wish I 
hadn’t been so mean,” she reflected. “He did 
begin to talk about marriage; I might have given 
him a chance.” And yet he had not really shown 
the impulsive ardor that she had a right to 


RUNS TRUE TO FORM 


93 


expect; apparently a man of social standing felt 
that he could trifle with a stenographer as he saw 
fit. A female flirt—that was one thing; the two 
words, indeed, were practically synonymous. But 
a male flirt—there was something abhorrent in 
the idea. And Rosamund kept silence. 

Finally, the bow of the dory grounded sharply 
on the beach, and Randall, jumping out, held the 
boat while Rosamund walked forward from the 
stern. Instinctively he started to extend his 
hand; then withdrew it. She had snubbed him 
once; he would not invite a repetition. So he 
merely observed with chilling conventionality, 
“Look out for the rail; it’s slippery.” 

The girl, as if determined to disregard his 
caution, placed one tiny foot on the rail, jumped, 
and then, to the utter surprise of both, she 
slipped, and clutching at the only object in sight, 
fell, disconcertingly and distractingly, into his 
arms. Whether her grasp was of affection or of 
self-preservation, it was close and clinging; and 
Meredith automatically clasped her slender body 
in return. Her hair brushed his cheek, her mouth 
was not two inches from his own. All the 
Puritan in him shrieked a warning, but it was 
too late—with a daring which surprised himself 
he bent his head and kissed her, with fervor, 
squarely on the lips. The next instant she had 
wrenched herself free, her cheeks scarlet with 
anger. “You coward!” she cried, “don’t you 
ever dare speak to me again!” And, a picture of 


94 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


wrath, she turned on her heel and walked rapidly 
toward the shooting-box. 

Randall, somewhat overcome, sat down on the 
dory’s rail. “Now I have done it,” he muttered. 
The aspect of the whole day had changed as 
completely as had his hopes. The south wind 
swept drearily from the inland hills; the sea had 
changed from blue to leaden gray; the sun was 
blotted out in sullen rain-clouds; the first big 
drops spattered on his face and on the dory’s 
thwarts. All irresolution had vanished from his 
mind; he saw things clearly now. “If she won’t 
marry me,” he said half-aloud, “I don’t want to 
live. She’s got to—that’s all there is to that.” 
He rose mechanically and began to haul the dory 
up the beach, his lips tingling with the memory 
of a kiss. 


VI 


Pride Goeth 

It lacked five minutes of nine o’clock on Mon¬ 
day morning a week later, when Arthur Mere¬ 
dith, punctual as the sun, entered the office of 
Loring & Stevenson, where for upwards of twenty 
years he had served as clerk, head clerk and 
finally as confidential secretary. Greeting stenog¬ 
raphers and office-boys with an impersonal 
“Good morning,” he made his unobtrusive way to 
his private office, methodically hung coat and hat 
on the hook behind the door, thrust upward the 
cover of his old-fashioned roll top desk, and 
began systematically to open and examine his 
morning mail. 

Quite in keeping with the manner of his arrival 
was the aspect of the desk itself, for its interior, 
even had other signs been lacking, would have 
proved a faithful index to the habits of its 
owner. Nowhere was there a paper misplaced; 
nowhere a pen that was ink-stained or a pencil 
that lacked its point of needle-like sharpness. 
The man himself harmonized perfectly with his 
surroundings. He was dressed plainly, but with 
neatness; was spare of figure, stoop-shouldered, 
and thin of face, with pale blue eyes that gazed 
forth abstractedly through steel-rimmed spectacles 
95 



96 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


of ancient make. In a word, he looked to the 
life the part of the steady, reliable subordinate, 
the man of whom the obituary notices would 
later record “he had not missed a day from his 
work for over fifteen years.” One object on the 
desk and one alone, served to contradict the im¬ 
pression that here was a man of ink-and-paper 
and not of flesh-and-blood. In the place of honor, 
an open space scrupulously reserved for it, there 
smiled forth from a silver frame the lovely face 
of Mary Meredith. 

Presently, to Meredith, beginning one of the 
many “Yours of the twenty-third inst. received, 
and in reply would state,” there appeared Jimmy, 
the chief office boy, unhurried and bland as usual. 
“Mr. Loring’s back,” he volunteered, “and wants 
to see you, Mr. Meredith. He’s in his office 
now.” 

Meredith rose at once. “Back already!” he 
exclaimed, apparently in some surprise. “How 
does he look, Jimmy? Any better?” 

“Nope,” returned the uncompromising Jimmy. 
“He looks rotten. Terrible green around the 
gills and walks awful slow and tottery. I’ll say 
he’s all in.” 

Meredith, his face overcast with an expression 
of anxiety, made his way quickly toward the 
office of the senior partner of the firm. As he 
entered, his first glance made it evident that 
Jimmy had told the truth. Yet with the conven¬ 
tional desire to encourage an invalid, he observed 
cheerfully, “I’m glad to see you back, Mr. Loring; 


PRIDE GOETH 


97 


you’re surely looking better than when you went 
away.” 

Henry Loring, pale and haggard and without 
a trace of his customary genial smile, shook his 
handsome gray head. “Arthur,” he said abruptly, 
“I’ve had bad news. There’s no use trying to 
dodge things. I thought that I was merely tired; 
that a week’s rest would put me right again. 
When it didn’t I called the doctors in and let 
them go over me from head to heel. As a result, 
I’m ordered away for a year. And even at that,” 
he added with evident effort, “they don’t promise 
me an indefinite lease on life. In fact, I judge 
I am what you might term a tenant at will.” 

Meredith, genuinely grieved, had begun some¬ 
what awkardly to express his sympathy, but his 
chief cut him short. “Never mind, Arthur,” he 
said. “I know you’re sorry without your telling 
me. You haven’t been with me all these years 
without my knowing you through and through. 
That’s why I sent for you just now. I must 
settle many matters in a very short time; several 
of them I shall leave wholly in your hands. 
There’s the Northbridge Hospital Fund, and the 
Taylor Estate, and the subscriptions for the 
Wayland Library. I am sole trustee for all of 
them, but I shall hand you over a power of 
attorney, giving you full swing. You’re familiar 
with the facts already, but look the papers 
over some time, today, and tomorrow I’ll talk 
with you again. You’ll find them in Mr. 
Whitney’s office. Naturally, you’re to be trusted, 


98 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


and to make this added work worth your while 
your salary will be raised five hundred dollars, 
dating back from January first of this year. No, 
don’t thank me; it’s merely business. I shouldn’t 
do it if I were well. I’ll see you tomorrow, then, 
and on your way out will you kindly ask Mr. 
Langdon and Mr. Pearson to step this way?” 

Once more seated at his desk, Meredith, in 
spite of his sympathy for his employer, was 
conscious of a thrill of pleasure approaching 
exhilaration. For one thing, it was gratifying to 
feel that he enjoyed Mr. Loring’s confidence; and 
for another the added money would be most 
welcome, both for what he could do with it, and 
more important still, for the impression it was 
bound to make upon his wife. For here, never 
spoken of—thought of, even, as little as possible 
—lay the real tragedy of Meredith’s life. The 
knowledge that as the years went by other men 
had far outstripped him in the race for wealth, 
had achieved “big things” in business, while he, 
dependable but thoroughly conservative, had 
remained practically stationary at his humble 
post. Not, indeed, that he cared, as far as he him¬ 
self was concerned. He was a sober man of quiet 
tastes, and the fact that no children had been 
born to them, while regrettable, had at least 
spared him the problem of their added expense. 
But with his infatuation for his) handsome wife, 
and with his wish to give her everything she 
might crave, his inability to do so galled him 
even more savagely than he was perhaps aware. 


PRIDE GOETH 


99 


And while she had never, except on the tender 
subject of his helping Dick through college, made 
open complaint, there still remained the sting, 
especially in the presence of others, of hearing 
her say with an air of resignation, “It’s hard, 
when you have no motor’'; or “There’s so little 
time, when one has only one maid”; and most 
frequently of all, “I’d love to, but I simply can’t 
afford it.” Latterly, it had seemed to Meredith 
these remarks had increased in frequency, so that 
it was now a positive delight to contemplate the 
various ways in which five hundred dollars might 
be spent. 

Not being, however, the kind of man who would 
allow any occasion, however momentous, to in¬ 
terrupt his regular routine, he was presently hard 
at work again, and with even greater energy 
than before, for a feeling of gratitude toward 
his employer, as well as his fixed and methodical 
habit of avoiding delays, made it inevitable that 
he should desire as soon as possible to master 
the details of these new matters now committed 
to his care. At noon, therefore, he spent little 
time over his lunch, and on his re-arrival at the 
office went directly, as Mr. Loring had suggested, 
to Mr. Whitney’s room, to find, as he had an¬ 
ticipated, that its occupant had not yet returned. 
Neither had Langdon and Pearson, the two young 
clerks next door, and Meredith was accordingly 
free, as he had hoped, to unearth the papers and 
begin their examination undisturbed. 

In the midst of his reading he became aware 


100 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


of the sound of cheerful voices in the corridor, 
growing steadily louder as Langdon and Pearson 
entered their office, conversing with animation, 
not of leases, mortgages or trusteeships, but of 
matters far more entertaining and frivolous. 

“So you had a good time?” Pearson was asking, 
and Langdon answered with enthusiasm, “A good 
time? Say, that doesn’t begin to cover it. We 
had a corking time. I didn’t know the Red 
Rabbit was so sporty. And talk about your 
jazz!” 

Meredith heard clearly both question and 
answer without being in the least interested 
in their conversation. For while one half of his 
brain proceeded to familiarize itself with the 
affairs of the Northbridge Hospital, the other 
half, subconsciously, absorbed the fascinating 
details of the dance at the little tea-house on the 
South Shore. 

“Yes, a big crowd,” Langdon rambled on. 
“Bill Stearns was there, and Joe Kennard and 
his gang. Then there were some girls from the 
Improprieties —pippins, too—and let’s see—who 
else—oh yes, Eddy Hamlin, all lit up as if he’d 
never heard of the prohibition law.” 

“Ed is the darndest man,” came Pearson’s an¬ 
swer. “You’ll find him wherever there’s rum 
and dancing and girls, especially girls. It’s past 
being a joke; he’s really a first-class rotter with 
women. I’ll bet a nickel that he and that roadster 
of his weren’t alone.” 

“You win,” rejoined Langdon with a chuckle. 


PRIDE GOETH 


101 


“He can certainly pick ’em. It was Mary Mere¬ 
dith this time.” 

Meredith, leaning over the table with the papers 
relating to the Northbridge Fund outspread be¬ 
fore him, was conscious of the slightest possible 
shock, followed by the knowledge that he was 
sitting bolt-upright in his chair, that there was 
a faint singing in his ears, succeeded by a sting¬ 
ing flush as the blood surged in a torrent to his 
face. No longer was his brain doing divided 
duty; the papers before him might have been a 
thousand miles away. Yet even with his mind 
acutely concentrated on what he had heard, he 
experienced at the same time a sensation of com¬ 
plete detachment, so fantastic and unreal did the 
whole occurrence appear. He had, to be sure, 
just heard the name of his wife coupled with 
that of an extremely dissipated young man in the 
leather trade, and that naturally enough had for 
the moment startled him. Yet it was impossible 
that it was really his wife of whom they spoke; 
there was evidently another Mary Meredith in 
the city of whom he had never heard. And why 
not? With several hundred John Smiths, why 
not two Mary Merediths? It was of course 
merely an amusing coincidence. But that was 
all. He was free to return to his task. 

All this flashed through his brain in the twin¬ 
kling of an eye, yet with such a fervor of con¬ 
centration that he could not tell whether, in the 
interval, he had missed something of the talk 
next door. But now he - heard, all too plainly, 


102 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


young Pearson remarking with a note of irrita¬ 
tion in his voice, “But why does old Meredith 
stand for it? He doesn’t seem that sort.” And 
then Langdon’s reply, “No, he most emphatically 
isn’t that sort. I don’t imagine he knows a thing 
about it. He travels a good deal, you know; he’s 
just back this morning from a trip to New York.” 

Abruptly Meredith started to his feet, his heart 
pounding against his ribs with unpleasant force. 
At whatever cost, he must inform them of his 
presence. To continue to listen would be unfair 
both to himself and to his associates. Yet to a 
man of his retiring and somewhat irresolute 
nature, the ordeal was so distasteful that he stood 
still for a moment, mentally bracing himself, so 
that in the interval before he stepped to the 
door he could hear Pearson saying, “Nonsense! 
Of course he knows!” And then Langdon’s 
answer, “I don’t believe it. Who’s going to tell 
him? It’s always the husband who’s the last 
to hear.” And thus it was with a dramatic 
flourish equally unexpected and undesired that 
Meredith, as if responding to a theatrical cue, 
made his appearance in the doorway, not, indeed, 
with the ringing words of some great tragedian 
on his lips, but observing mildly, with a note of 
apology in his tone, “I beg your pardon, boys—” 

If his speech itself lacked force, the effect of 
his appearance was positively overwhelming. 
Pearson’s jaw actually dropped and his eyes pro¬ 
truded, while Langdon exclaimed in horror, 
“Good God!” and then subsided, frozen with 


PRIDE GOETH 


103 


embarrassment. And thus it was that the most 
effacing of the three was the one compelled to 
break the silence. “I trust,” he ventured, “that 
it was not my wife of whom you were speaking. 
I should regret—” 

Langdon leaped to his feet. “Mr. Meredith, 
I hope you’ll pardon me. I hadn’t the faintest 
idea you were within hearing. It serves me right 
for talking too much. I trust, sir, that you will 
excuse me.” 

His sincerity was evident; no apology could 
have been more manfully made; and although 
satisfactory enough in one sense, in another it 
brought no consolation to Meredith’s mind, for 
Langdon’s very contrition made it plain beyond 
the shadow of a doubt that Meredith and his 
wife had been the persons under discussion. 
Never, it seemed to him, had he been placed in 
a more awkward position, and he stood irresolute 
in helpless silence, scarcely knowing how to pro¬ 
ceed. Nor were the others more at their ease. 
Langdon stared fixedly out of the window; Pear¬ 
son fingered some papers on his desk. Presently, 
feeling that Langdon’s reply deserved acknowl¬ 
edgment, Meredith spoke again. 

“That’s all right, my boy,” he said. “We all 
talk too much; it’s a common failing. And I owe 
you an apology, also, for playing eavesdropper. 
I need hardly explain that it was unintentional. 
If I had guessed—” He left his sentence unfin¬ 
ished. Neither of the others spoke, and the op¬ 
pressive silence deepened. Vaguely, Meredith 


104 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


felt that he must make some defense of his wife, 
and gulping desperately, he forced the words, 
“If I understood you, Langdon—” 

But Langdon, with a sudden uncontrollable 
gesture, broke in upon him. “Please, Mr. Mere¬ 
dith, let’s not discuss it. I’ve made an ass of 
myself. I’m frightfully sorry—” 

He, in his turn, took refuge in silence more 
eloquent than speech, and thus the three men 
stood facing one another when Whitney, enter¬ 
ing briskly, unconsciously relieved the strain. 
“Hullo,” he cried good-naturedly, “big argument, 
eh? Politics or baseball? Which is it?” And 
with a friendly smile he passed on into his room. 

Meredith drew a long breath. Then, “All 
right,” he said, “we’ll forget it.” And re-entering 
Whitney’s office, he gathered up his papers and 
withdrew, to sit at his own desk, through the 
long afternoon, in a misery of doubt which made 
it impossible for him to keep his mind upon his 
work. The glory of the day had vanished. The in¬ 
creased salary, so hugely prized, now appeared in 
the light of this subsequent disaster, a matter of 
no importance whatever. At one moment he would 
affirm boldly to himself, “It’s impossible; it can’t 
be true.” And at the next, tortured with wild 
misgivings, he would speculate, “But why should 
Langdon lie about it? It must be so.” And 
finally, on the stroke of five, he left the office 
with spirits at lowest ebb, feeling, for the first 
time since the day of his marriage, that he might 
be returnng merely to a house that he lived in,— 
not to his home. 


VII 


Before a Fall 

Dinner, to Meredith’s relief, was ended. It had 
been a distinctly trying ordeal, yet he felt that 
he had carried it off successfully. Not only had 
he contrived to hide his anxiety, but he had 
played to perfection the part of the long-married 
husband, serenely confident of his place in the 
affections of his wife. With conscious artifice, 
he had pitched his talk in just the right key, 
limiting the conversation to commonplaces and 
mingling, with the gossip of the office and the 
details of his trip, inquiries polite but purposely 
perfunctory as to her activities during his absence. 
And all this time, though hating the role he was 
forced to play, he found himself studying his 
wife from a wholly new angle—the old, easy 
confidence and trust, for the time at least, com¬ 
pletely absent from his viewpoint. Yet there 
seemed little in his wife’s demeanor to confirm 
Langdon’s story; she had done practically noth¬ 
ing, she told him, since he had been away, and no 
word or hint of the Red Rabbit affair passed her 
lips. 

And now, as they sipped their coffee, Arthur 
Meredith, for the first time since their marriage, 
proceeded deliberately to set a trap for his wife— 
105 


106 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


that ancient artifice used times without number 
by suspicious husbands, and so often with tragic 
success and life-wrecking results. Too bad 
about Mr. Loring,” he observed. “I’m afraid 
he won’t get well. And incidentally, it’s going 
to make it harder for everyone in the office. 
Take my case, for instance. Instead of a quiet 
evening at home with you I’ve got to start right 
back for my desk and work there for the next two 
or three hours.” 

Did he imagine it, or was there a momentary 
flicker of interest in the glance she gave him 
before she answered nonchalantly, “Why, that’s 
too bad, dear. Will you really have to work so 
late?” In any event, in the light of the after¬ 
noon’s experiences he found the query disquiet¬ 
ing, and scanning everything from his new view¬ 
point, he could not but wonder whether this was 
mere wifely solicitude, or whether some meaning 
deeper than their casual import lay behind her 
words. So as he answered, “Well, I won’t be 
home before ten at the earliest; probably later,” 
he took pains to watch her face. Her reiterated, 
“That’s too bad; I may wait up for you,” seemed 
so natural and unstudied that he experienced a 
sudden shame at doubting her. 

It was shortly after eight o’clock when he left 
the house, anxiously wondering, as he made his 
way down the street, what the result of his 
stratagem would be. Quite conceivably, of course, 
the outcome might be merely negative. His wife, 
whether innocent or guilty, might choose, for any 


BEFORE A FALL 


107 


number of reasons, to spend her evening by 
herself. On the other hand, if she were habit¬ 
ually carrying on affairs with other men, she now 
possessed an excellent opportunity either to go 
out or to receive a caller at home; and if she 
intended to avail herself of the chance, obviously, 
since her time was limited, she would not delay. 
Either half past eight, or at the latest quarter 
of nine, would seem to be a suitable hour for 
his return. 

Yet now, having progressed so far in the exe¬ 
cution of his plans, he all at once felt his courage 
begin to fail. To anticipate a crisis was one 
thing; actually to face it quite another. And 
Meredith, cherishing as he did a romantic pas¬ 
sion for his wife, now wondered, though despis¬ 
ing himself for his weakness, whether it might 
not be better to keep his eyes happily closed 
than to open them upon a world in ruins and a 
future without joy. And yet—would real happi¬ 
ness ever be possible to a man haunted by 
jealousy and continual distrust of the woman he 
loved? Assuredly not. Altogether, his path ap¬ 
peared beset with difficulties, and as he ambled 
aimlessly onward toward the car tracks he 
allowed himself the unusual luxury of an oath, 
something never permitted in business hours, but 
reserved for his moments of comparative bold¬ 
ness and truculence in the solitude of his home. 
“This,” he muttered to himself, “is one damned 
bad mix-up. Unless Langdon is lying, there's 


108 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


lots of trouble ahead. Whatever I do, I 11 bet 
I’ll be sorry for it afterward.” 

Thus meditating, he mechanically hailed and 
boarded a passing street car, and for the space of 
a dozen blocks sat motionless, delicately poised 
between alternatives, a perfect example of hope¬ 
less indecision. At one moment, tense as an 
athlete awaiting the starter’s signal, he was on 
the point of leaping to his feet and going forth 
to meet his fate; at the next he repented and 
began desperately to seek for arguments which 
would justify a continuation of his passive course. 
To creep back to his home in the darkness, he 
scathingly told himself, would be to act like a 
common spy; nothing could justify such treat¬ 
ment of his wife. So convincing did this reason¬ 
ing appear that he had, for the first time, phy¬ 
sically relaxed in his seat when all at once there 
flashed into his mind the memory of the scene 
in the office. He saw again Langdon’s startled 
amazement; heard once more Pearson’s scorn¬ 
ful, “But why does old Meredith stand for it? 
He doesn’t seem that sort.” ‘Stand for it!’ 
The phrase, pregnant with suggestion, brought 
vividly to his imagination a vision of the dance 
hall at the Red Rabbit, the negro musicians and 
their riotous jazz, and his wife swaying sensuously 
in Hamlin’s arms. It was the needed touch; all 
other emotions gave place to a blaze of wrath. 
Hastily leaving the car, he began retracing his 
steps, and almost before he realized it was again 
walking up the side street which led to his home. 


BEFORE A FALL 


109 


Everything, as he approached, seemed to be 
just as he had left it. No tell-tale motor stood 
outside the door; the lights in the parlor were 
still burning. Surely, he reflected, this was an 
undignified and futile task he had laid upon him¬ 
self. Yet it was no time now to abandon it, and 
thankful for the darkness of the quiet street, he 
cautiously approached the parlor window and 
peered in. For a long minute he stood motion¬ 
less, his face tense and drawn, his hands clenched. 
Then, without making a sound, he turned away 
into the blackness of the night. 

It was some moments later—exactly how many 
he could not have told—that he found himself 
once more on the street, striding onward like 
an automaton, with the picture he had seen 
etched sharply on his brain—the man and the 
woman seated on the sofa. His wife was lean¬ 
ing back in an attitude coquettishly defensive, 
while Hamlin, bending forward, was holding her 
hand in his and gazing ardently into her eyes. 

At the corner he pulled up short, staring about 
him like a man awakened from a swoon. The 
first shock was over; and now, somewhat to his 
surprise, he found himself meditating, not so 
much upon his wrongs, as upon the undramatic 
conventionality of life. Long before this, a hero 
of the screen would have made agile entrance 
through the window, pulled the never-failing gun 
from his hip pocket and blithely reduced the 
intruder to a crumpled heap upon the floor. As 
a matter of fact, here he was standing forlornly 


110 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


on the corner, while the despicable Hamlin was 
enjoying a pleasant evening making love to his 
wife. Evidently, the situation abounded in in¬ 
justice; just as evidently, he was not meeting it 
as it should be met. Yet how better it? Sup¬ 
pose, for the sake of argument, he should return 
at once, storm into the parlor and denounce 
Hamlin. Not only would the sequel be un¬ 
pleasant, but he himself would appear in a 
ridiculous light. Hamlin would almost certainly 
treat the whole affair with levity, claiming that 
holding a lady’s hand could scarcely be rated a 
criminal offense. His wife would inevitably take 
the same view, and Meredith would find himself 
an unsupported minority. Moreover, it was pal¬ 
pably unwise to start something you could never 
hope to finish, and guns and bowie knives being 
out of the question, he faced the fact that Hamlin 
was a much younger man, athletic and in the 
prime of life. To wait, therefore, and to 
“have it out” with his wife in private later, though 
wholly distasteful and infinitely less heroic, 
seemed by far the more sensible course to pursue. 

This conclusion arrived at, Meredith resumed 
his solitary patrol of the corner, weary and heart¬ 
sick with the trials of the day, and with irrita¬ 
tion at thus finding himself exiled from his own 
home. At quarter of ten he grimly decided that 
he had allowed his visitor time enough for his 
diversions. Proceeding once more in the direc¬ 
tion of the house and perceiving no signs of 
Hamlin’s departure, he again made his way across 


BEFORE A FALL 


111 


the lawn and looked in through the parlor win¬ 
dow, just in time to see the couple rise from 
the sofa and walk slowly toward the doorway 
leading into the hall. Here Mary Meredith 
paused, extending her hand in farewell; but 
Hamlin, ignoring it, made a quick step forward, 
and taking her in his arms, he kissed her vehe¬ 
mently, not once but half-a-dozen times. She 
did not offer the slightest resistance to his ca¬ 
resses, and when he released her, Meredith could 
not perceive on her face the least indication 
either of resentment or surprise. Sudden anger 
swept over him and without an instants hesi¬ 
tation he made his way rapidly toward the en¬ 
trance of his home. 

As he mounted the steps, Hamlin, emerging 
from the house, had just closed the door behind 
him and stopped to light a cigarette. They met 
face to face. The visitor, with perfect self- 
possession, hailed him genially, “Why, hullo, 
Arthur. Just made a call on you. Your wife 
says you’re working evenings. It’s a bad habit; 
you’d better cut it out.” 

For a moment Meredith glowered at the 
younger man without speaking, noting his jaunty, 
well-groomed air, the fashionable cut of his 
clothes, the light gloves, the spats, the handker¬ 
chief with its colored border. Noted, too, the 
meticulously shaven face, the sensual mouth, the 
ruddy, fleshy cheeks which promised, in time, to 
become pendulous jowls,—noted all these things 
with intense disgust. Then, stepping closer, 


112 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


Meredith spoke in a low tone, vibrant with anger. 
“Look here, Ed, I know all about these calls, 
and I know a lot of other things, too. And I’ll 
tell you this: if you don’t want to get into 
trouble, you keep clear of my house, and you 
keep clear of my wife. Do you understand?” 

Hamlin, unlighted cigarette in mouth and 
match raised half way to his lips, stood as if 
suddenly frozen into immobility. His lips half 
opened, as though he sought to utter words that 
would not come, and he made an abortive attempt 
at a smile. Then, without a word, he tossed 
away the extinguished match and walked rapidly 
away down the path. 

Meredith, with a pleasurable glow of victory 
and recovered self-respect, watched him until he 
had regained the street. Then he entered the house 
and walked into the parlor to find his wife stand¬ 
ing in front of the mirror rearranging her hair. 
She, like Hamlin, showed not the slightest trace 
of embarrassment, and turned to greet him with 
a smile. “Did you see Ed?” she asked “He’s 
just starting on a three months’ business trip 
through the West and came to say good-bye. 
He was so sorry to miss you.” 

“Yes, I saw Ed,” responded Meredith grimly. 
Then, bracing himself for the ordeal, he seated 
himself and indicated a chair opposite. “Sit 
down a minute,” he requested. “I want to talk 
to you.” 

With a final glance into the mirror, she com¬ 
plied. “At your service,” she answered lightly, 


BEFORE A FALL 


113 


and Meredith noticed with a pang that she had 
never looked younger or more attractive than at 
this moment. The very thought of her beauty 
being shared with others, which he had imagined 
reserved for him alone, became intolerable. 

“I had a notion/’ he began, “that a wife owed 
certain duties to her husband. There’s some¬ 
thing in the Bible, I believe, about leaving others 
and cleaving unto him, and also something in 
the marriage service, though you’ve doubtless 
forgotten it, about loving and honoring him. I 
am probably old-fashioned in my views, but I do 
object most decidedly to coming home and finding 
another man hugging and kissing my wife.” 

She had listened quietly and without apparent 
emotion to all he had to say, and then, after a 
brief pause, she answered tranquilly, “Finding? 
I should think spying would be a better word.” 

“It happens,” he retorted, “to be your con¬ 
duct that we are discussing, and not mine. And 
if you object to my spying, it wasn’t I who did 
the spying last night at the Red Rabbit ” 

She raised her hand to her lips to conceal a 
yawn, real or amused. “Too bad you weren’t 
there,” she rejoined flippantly. “You might have 
enjoyed it.” 

Silence followed. She continued to gaze at 
him speculatively, with a baffling indifference. 
He had expected either wild contrition or wilder 
anger—in any event, a violent scene—and having 
prepared for a storm, he found her calmness dis¬ 
concerting. 


114 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


“Well,” he demanded sharply at last, “have you 
nothing to say?” 

“Not a word,” she answered, “except that I 
fear your trip has tired you. I really can t see 
what you’re so excited about.” 

“So excited about!” he exploded. “Good God! 
After the way you’ve acted! Why, it only 
means one thing—that you’ve stopped caring for 
me. Isn’t that bad enough? And you wonder 
why I’m excited! What sort of a man do you 
think I am?” 

“Now you’re melodramatic,” she answered care¬ 
lessly. “Of course I haven’t stopped caring for 
you. I consider that we’re quite a model couple 
—for these times. Only—don’t forget that we’ve 
been married eleven years.” 

“What difference does that make ?” he de¬ 
manded. 

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” she rejoined. “You know 
perfectly well what I mean. Marriage isn’t a per¬ 
petual honeymoon, and after eleven years a little 
variety is permissible—desirable, even. We’re 
only human. The spice of life, you know.” 

“That’s all very well,” he answered grimly, 
“but where is this spice of life idea going to land 
you? How far, for example, have you gone with 
Hamlin? You seem to be on intimate terms.” 

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong, if that’s what you 
mean,” she answered promptly. “I should never 
be such a fool as that.” And suddenly, with a 
complete change of manner, she added, “Look 
here, Arthur, I detest scenes, but since you’ve 


BEFORE A FALL 


115 


started one we might as well see it through. I 
get your point of view; now I’ll give you mine. 
Let’s go back to the beginning. We married for 
love when I was eighteen, and for a year or two 
I suppose nobody in the world could have been 
happier than we were. Isn’t that true?” 

He nodded, with a sigh for vanished bliss. 
“That’s true,” he admitted. 

“Very well,” she went on. “Then, after that, 
came the time when bread and cheese and kisses 
didn’t seem quite to fill the bill. That wasn’t 
our fault; it’s the same with everyone. Married 
life is like all the rest of life; you go from one 
stage to another, no two of them exactly the 
same. A woman makes friends; she likes to enter¬ 
tain and see something of someone besides her 
husband. In a word, she wants less love and 
more luxuries. And incidentally she likes to be 
able to boast about her husband—how smart he 
is and how much money he is making. And that, 
with us, is just where the trouble began. You’re 
a good sort in most ways, Arthur, but as a money 
maker you’ve certainly been a total loss.” 

The words were brutal, but Meredith, scrupu¬ 
lously just, felt that it was his turn to meditate. 
“Quite true,” he assented at length, “but I don’t 
see your point. ‘For richer, for poorer,’—that’s 
what we promise, isn’t it? Money is a great 
thing, of course, but love ought to be greater.” 

“Ought to be, no doubt,” she retorted, “but it 
isn’t. People who think so are the kind who 
still read their Bibles and believe that if they’re 


116 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


good they’ll be happy. That stuff is all in the 
discard. A man’s wife, to be a real wife, ought 
to be his mistress too. That’s what he wants. 
And mistresses cost money. 

Meredith looked at her sternly. “Mary—” 
he began, but she cut him short. “Oh, for 
heaven’s sake, don’t preach,” she cried, “because 
I won’t stand for it. What’s the sense in being 
a hypocrite? You know I’m telling the truth. 
No man with any pep wants a marble image 
for a wife; he wants a live one. And if a woman 
is nice to her husband she wants to have some 
reward for it. It’s shocking, of course, but it’s 
true.” 

The silence lengthened. Meredith had food for 
thought. “So I am to understand,” he said at 
last, “that you are going around with other men 
just for what you can get out of it?” 

“That’s it, precisely,” she answered. “I’ve got 
to have some excitement. If you could give it to 
me, I wouldn’t go outside for it. But a woman 
can’t vegetate at home, with a movie show per¬ 
haps once a week. That’s a little too tame. So 
there you are. There’s no sentiment to it; I don’t 
care for men, anyway. They’re awful fools. But 
I have a right to some good times, and I’m going 
to get them as best I can.” 

“And what do the men get?” he queried. “Most 
fellows I know aren’t philanthropists, especially 
where a pretty woman is concerned. I should 
say you were playing an exceedingly dangerous 
game.” 


BEFORE A FALL 


117 


“Nonsense,” she retorted disdainfully. “They 
get mighty little from me. I tell you most of 
them are fools. But if they get pleasure enough 
out of holding a woman’s hand, or putting their 
arms around her, or once in a while stealing a 
kiss to pay them for motor rides and dances and 
suppers, that’s their business. And if they ever 
want anything more than that—why, I’m 
through.” 

It was perfectly evident that she was speaking 
the truth, and Meredith was conscious of a dis¬ 
tinct feeling of relief. No scandal or divorce suit 
threatened; at the most, his wife had simply been 
indiscreet. Furthermore, her point of view, in 
one sense, was not ill-taken. The life he gave 
her could not be called a thrilling one. Yet on 
the other hand— 

Unexpectedly she arose, and before he realized 
her intention she had crossed the room, seated 
herself audaciously on his knee and laid her 
cheek against his. “Be a sport, Arthur,” she 
whispered. “You’ve got in a rut, that’s the 
whole trouble. You could make more money if 
you’d try.” 

In spite of himself, he thrilled at the familiar 
contact and at her words. The implied sense of 
comradeship, so long lacking, delighted him. And 
between ardent caresses he answered, “If I only 
could. But how can I, Mary? I’m growing old. 
There’s no future ahead of me.” 

“That’s just it,” she answered. “You’ve lost 
your nerve. If you could only be like Ed Hamlin. 


118 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


He’s a born money maker, and a plunger, too. 
He bets on the races and the ball games, and 
plays the market all the time. Why, only last 
week he cleaned up eight thousand dollars in 
cotton. Why can’t you take a chance, too?” 

Meredith smiled somewhat ruefully. “Well, 
I’m not exactly what you’d call a sporting man,’ 
he answered. “I don’t know one horse from 
another, and betting on ball games isn’t very 
dignified.” 

.“Oh, bother the dignity,” she rejoined. “The 
money is what we want. There must be ways 
of making it; you’ve got a little saved up, any¬ 
way. Wait for a good tip and take a chance. 
Only get me some coin and I’ll certainly reward 
you; I’ll make you think it is eleven years ago.” 

As she spoke, she put her arms around his 
neck and pressed her lips to his so fervently that 
in spite of himself the last vestige of his anger 
evaporated. “Is it a bargain?” she murmured, 
and suddenly he felt a violent distaste for his 
humdrum, plodding life, with its daily monotonous 
grind. Ambitious visions filled his brain, and 
with more vigor than he had shown for years, 
he answered, “Yes, it’s a bargain. You’re right, 
Mary; I have got in a rut. But I’ve played safe 
long enough; now I’ll take a chance. And if I 
win, I’ll spend every cent of it on you, dear. 
You’re all I have to live for in the world.” 


VIII 


The Woman Tempted Me 

It was Monday morning, and nine o’clock. 
The dishes had been washed and dried and the 
parlor dusted, and Mrs. Leslie was slowly ascend¬ 
ing the stairway of her home. Her tall angular 
figure was bent with toil, and her thin gray hair, 
drawn into a knot at the back of her head, piti¬ 
lessly revealed her seamed and shrunken cheeks. 
The spring of youth had departed from her step, 
giving place to the slack and lifeless tread of 
encroaching age. At the head of the stairs she 
paused, irresolute. Through the open door of 
her lodger’s room she could see that Dorothy was 
reclining in the sunny window seat, industriously 
polishing her rosy finger nails. At length, with 
evident hesitation, the landlady advanced to the 
doorway and entered. 

“I thought I’d just tidy things a mite, if you 
don’t mind,” she explained, and forthwith began 
the process of “tidying.” As she worked she 
chatted of this and that, with now and again a 
tactful pause, as though to provide Dorothy with 
an opening, if she wished it, to contribute to the 
conversation. Her artifice proved unsuccessful. 
The girl, answering in monosyllables, showed no 
desire to talk; and at length Mrs. Leslie, with 
119 


120 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


no further pretext available for cleaning a room 
already immaculate, stood stock-still in the centre 
of the floor and abruptly blurted out, “Dorothy, 
I was doing some mending in the sitting room 
last night when you and Rosamund were talking 
out on the porch. I didn’t aim to eavesdrop, but 
I couldn’t help hearing what you said. I’ll be 
honest with you—I just sat there and listened as 
soon as I sensed what it was about. I listened 
ecause I think a whole lot of you, and I don’t 
want to see you making a mistake. That’s why 
I came up here this morning; the room didn’t 
need dusting, and I guess you know it. I wanted 
an excuse. I hated to come up and start right 
in giving you advice.” 

The girl had listened attentively, her hands 
falling idle in her lap, her gaze turned squarely 
on her visitor. “How much did you hear?” she 
asked. “Everything?” 

“No,” Mrs. Leslie answered, “but enough to 
get the drift plain enough. That you had had 
a talk with Dick and then a letter from him. 
That you want to put off getting married and 
he says he won’t wait and that if you won’t have 
him now you needn’t have him at all. I know 
very well that it’s none of my business, but I 
just want to say a word to you about it. That is,” 
she added humbly, “if you’ll let me.” 

There was no mistaking her kindliness or her 
sincerity, and Dorothy, however little she might 
relish the discussion, had no choice but to answer, 
“Of course I’ll let you, Mrs. Leslie. I should be 


THE WOMAN TEMPTED ME 


121 


most ungrateful if I didn’t. And do sit down; 
you look very tired this morning.” 

“I am tired,” Mrs. Leslie admitted, as she 
seated herself. “Pm never anything but tired, 
these days. And maybe,” she supplemented, with 
a shadowy gleam of humor, “that will do for a 
kind of text for what I’m going to say.” 

She remained silent for a moment, as if uncer¬ 
tain how to begin; then resumed, “I suppose it’s 
the same story. Young folks and old folks can’t 
see things the same way. Most girls these days 
are crazy to get married; seems as though that 
was all they thought about. And you can’t 
blame them for it. It’s the way the Lord made 
them. But here’s what I’m getting at: neither 
girls nor boys, nowadays, seem to realize that 
marriage is a mighty serious thing. Just look at 
the papers. One day you’ll read that an actress 
weds the son of a millionaire after a midnight 
supper; the next day a high school boy elopes 
with a girl of fifteen; and the day after that a 
girl sues for divorce and you find that she was 
married after a ‘lightning courtship’ of a day and 
a half. If they’d only look ahead, Dorothy, and 
count the risks. Take my case. When Don 
Leslie came courting me, I was the proudest girl 
in town. He was good looking—both the girls 
take after him, though I wasn’t the sight in those 
days that I am now. And he had a fine trade, 
too. All the other girls envied me. Happy? 
Nobody could have been happier than I was on 
my wedding day. And then what? Within the 


J^*B<**» 


V\ 


122 DAUGHTERS OF eVe 

year Don got in with a sporty crowd, took to 
drinking and gambling, slighted his work and was 
only home for his meals and to sleep—and not 
always for that. Then Joe was born, and then 
Stella, and then Rosamund, and then, before Joe 
was five years old, Don got pneumonia and died, 
and left me without a cent and with three babies 
on my hands. For sixteen years, sick or well, 
Fve worked and slaved; worn my fingers to the 
bone. Now, the last few years, it’s been easier, 
with Joe helping me, though I wish he was a 
mite steadier. He’s not a bad boy, only he’s 
too much like his father—crazy for everything in 
the sporting line. But take it all together, when 
I look bad* and ask myself, ‘What fun have you 
had out of life?’ I have to answer, ‘Mighty little.’ 
And when I ask myself, ‘Was it a mistake getting 
married?’ I have to answer, ‘I never made a big¬ 
ger one.’ ” 

Her voice, as she ended, was scarcely under 
control. Her lips were trembling and her eyes 
were moist, and it was with genuine sympathy 
that Dorothy answered, “You certainly have had 
a hard time, Mrs. Leslie. You’ve done wonders 
to bring up your family as you have, and there 
isn’t a sweeter girl in the world than Rosamund. 
You are right about people marrying too hastily; 
there’s no doubt of it. But I can’t see,” she 
added, “what that has to do with my case. I’ve 
known Dick a long time, and we’ve been engaged 
for months. So far as that goes, I’m not reck¬ 
less in marrying him. As to what may happen 


THE WOMAN TEMPTED ME 123 


if we do marry, why that’s the risk everyone has 
to run. It’s life, that’s all you can say.” 

While she was speaking the older woman had 
regained her self-control, and she made haste 
to rejoin, “That’s quite true, Dorothy. Looking 
at it that way, I don’t think you’re taking any 
more chances than most girls. In fact, you’re 
taking less. Mr. Meredith isn’t wealthy, but he 
seems like a very nice young man. Joe can’t 
say enough about him; he considers it a great 
honor to have him coming to the house so much. 
Though Joe is prejudiced, of course. He thinks 
that the athletes are the only people in the world. 
But what I mean is this: I don’t like his hurry¬ 
ing you. I’ve read all about this new rule in the 
paper, and I think Mr. Meredith ought to be 
willing to wait. You can look forward to per¬ 
haps fifty years of married life together. Why 
is he so high and mighty with you now? That’s 
the thing I don’t like.” 

“He’s impatient,” Dorothy responded, “because 
we had our plans all made, as you know. And 
then their passing this rule upset everything. 
And Dick does like to have his own way.” 

“That’s it exactly,” cried Mrs. Leslie. “Now 
you’ve said just what I was trying to say. Of 
course, in one sense, you can’t blame him; he’s 
young and hot-blooded. But he’s thinking too 
much about himself, Dorothy, and not enough 
of you. What’s a few months, at his age? Plenty 
of other men have waited and been glad to wait. 
There was Jacob, wasn’t there? And there’s been 


124 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


a lot more like him since. You ought not to be 
hurried so/’ 

Dorothy rose, crossed the room swiftly and 
sank on her knees by the older woman’s side, 
the emotion so recently evident on her visitor’s 
face now visible on her own. “But it’s so hard,” 
she whispered. “I don’t know what to do. I 
can talk to you about it, because you’ve been 
so kind to me. I’m crazy about Dick and always 
have been, ever since we met. And if we don’t 
marry now, he says that means I don’t love him 
and he’ll never see me again. There’s another 
girl, too, and she’s terribly rich. If he should 
marry her,” she concluded fiercely, “I’d kill 
myself.” 

Mrs. Leslie, her days of motherly tenderness 
far behind her, laid her hand somewhat awkwardly 
on the girl’s shoulder. “There, there,” she com¬ 
forted, “don’t you think of anything like that. 
And perhaps you’re right, Dorothy; getting mar¬ 
ried may be the best thing, after all. I’m nothing 
but an old fool, anyway. I shouldn’t have 
meddled, but I meant it kindly. I still think 
Mr. Meredith is wrong, but if he’s so set about 
it, why then, as you say, what are you going 
to do?” 

The silence lengthened. No answer to her 
question was forthcoming. Presently she rose 
slowly to her feet, and Dorothy did likewise. 
“Well,” the older woman observed, “Joe’s going 
to take me to the movies tonight, so I must go 
ahead and get my work done.” 


THE WOMAN TEMPTED ME 125 


She started for the door, but at the threshold 
she turned suddenly, as though recalling some¬ 
thing. “Just one other thing, Dorothy,” she 
said. “I nearly forgot. I heard you talking to 
Rosamund about that Knowlton woman who lives 
in Watertown. Let me tell you this; she’s no 
fit person for you to associate with. She’s bad, 
clean through. If I had to answer for all that 
she has, I’d be afraid to face my Maker. You 
take my advice, Dorothy, and give that woman 
a wide berth.” 

Dorothy’s face had flushed crimson. “You 
don’t understand,” she faltered. “I wasn’t going 
to see her. I only wanted—” 

She did not finish the sentence, but stood 
silent, a picture of embarrassment. But Mrs. 
Leslie hastened to reassure her. “I didn’t think 
you were going to see her,” she answered. “I 
only wanted to tell you what kind of woman she 
was. Now I’ll go about my business. And I 
guess,” she added drily, “that my advice has been 
just about as valuable as advice generally is. 
People are right when they call it the cheapest 
thing in the world.” 

For answer Dorothy stepped forward quickly 
and kissed the older woman’s faded cheek. “Don’t 
say that,” she demurred. “I appreciate all you’ve 
said and I’ll think everything over most care¬ 
fully. I’ll try not to make a mistake.” 

“You’ve been good,” Mrs. Leslie answered, “to 
listen to me.” And she departed, feeling that she 
had at least done her duty, while Dorothy, left 


126 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


alone, resumed her seat in the sunshine, and, as 
she had promised, once more began to reflect 
upon the difficulties which beset her. 

Half an hour passed. Then, with a quick nod 
of her head, as if her mind were definitely made 
up, she sprang to her feet, put on her hat and 
coat, and made her way to the Square, where 
she entered the Tube and boarded a Watertown 
car. Two hours later she returned, lunched 
hurriedly on pie and coffee, and made her way 
into Boston, where she spent the rest of the 
afternoon in the shopping district. Long after 
dusk had fallen she returned to Mrs. Leslie’s, 
laden with bundles which she tucked away 
secretly in her own room. At last supper was 
ended, the dishes were washed, Mrs. Leslie and 
Joe had departed for the “movies,” and she was 
free to dart quickly upstairs again. Swiftly she 
disrobed to slender nudity and arrayed herself 
in her recently purchased finery. The process 
completed, she gazed critically at her reflection 
in the long mirror, half- satisfied, half dismayed, 
so daringly demi-mondaine was her costume, 
and so adequately did the foamy laces, the 
shimmering ribbons and the stockings of delicate 
silk reveal those charms which it was their 
pretence to hide. 

“Very improper,” was her murmured com¬ 
ment, “but very subtle and satisfactory,” and 
turning the lamp a trifle lower, she sat down 
to await her lover’s coming. Almost imme¬ 
diately she heard the rattle of a key in the lock, 


THE WOMAN TEMPTED ME 127 


and rising quickly, she stood in the semi-dark¬ 
ness, smiling to herself as she compared the 
customary hurry and dash of his arrival with his 
present slow and dignified step. The step, it 
seemed to her, of a man determined to tread 
warily, to keep his head and his temper, and 
to gain his ends without compromise. The 
smile faded from her lips and a look of resolu¬ 
tion crept into her eyes. 

An instant later Meredith’s tall figure loomed 
dimly in the doorway. Without a moment’s 
hesitation she stepped swiftly forward, slipped 
both arms around his neck and raised her lips 
to his. There followed an instant tense with 
uncertainty, the hinge of their whole future. 
Then, with a half sigh, he drew her to him and 
she felt the pressure of his arms about her and 
his eager lips seeking hers. At last he released 
her and held her from him at arm’s length, his 
glance eloquent of admiration. “Well, of all the 
peaches!” he ejaculated. “Honestly, Dorothy, 
you never looked so pretty in your life.” 

“It must be the dress,” she answered guile¬ 
lessly, “or the undress, rather. I hope you 
don’t mind. I had a headache, and put this on 
for comfort.” 

He led the way to the sofa, his arm still 
around her waist. As they seated themselves he 
drew her closer, and as he did so his hand, 
stealing upward, encountered the smooth oval 
of her breast. Sudden fire darted through his 
veins and a curious feeling of lassitude crept 


128 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


over him. His breath thickened in his throat. 
Instinctively scenting danger, he removed his 
arm and heard his own voice, far-off and 
strained, asking prosaically, “Well, you got my 
note?” 

She had made no effort to withdraw from his 
encircling arm; he could still feel the pressure of 
her slender body; her lips were very near to his. 
“Yes,” she answered steadily, “I got your letter, 
and of course I’ve thought of nothing else. You 
say it’s now or never; that I must marry you 
this week, or you’ll never see me again; that you 
will—what was it you wrote?—‘thrust me out 
of your life forever.’ It sounded very hard and 
cruel. But I suppose you mean it, and I will 
have to make my choice.” 

One arm, as she spoke, had stolen toward his 
neck; her dainty, rose-pink palm touched his 
cheek. Meredith set his lips hard and sudden 
doubt assailed him. Instead of being the master¬ 
ful and determined man of the world he had 
imagined himself, he felt himself completely under 
the spell of this siren, and appeared, even in his 
own eyes, crude and inept. To thrust her from 
his life forever—that had been easy to say, but 
he realized now that such a course would be 
impossible for him. Yet he had chosen his own 
ground, and this battle of opposing wills had 
gone too far to make surrender possible. So 
putting into his tone all the resolution he could 
summon, he answered, “You’ve said it, Dorothy; 
it’s now or never. It’s up to you.” 


THE WOMAN TEMPTED ME 129 


There was a moment’s pause before she an¬ 
swered, her voice tense with emotion, “Then I’m 
terribly sorry, Dick, but I can’t do it. I love 
you more than I can say, but if we should marry 
now it would spoil your whole life. So you must 
give me up and forget me, and take the other 
girl instead. We must say good-by, Dick; it’s 
the only way.” 

There was silence. Her hand just brushed 
his cheek, and the infinitesimal contact thrilled 
every fibre of his body. Only his stubborn pride 
and the fighting spirit of the football field sus¬ 
tained him in his Resolve. He sat motionless, 
unwilling to yield, unable to depart, until at 
length he heard her whisper, “Dick, dear, you do 
really love me, don’t you? You know what I 
mean—honestly and truly love me?” 

“Dorothy!” he cried. “How can you ask? 
You know I do.” 

His arms were around her in a long embrace; 
the pressure of her lips answered the ardent 
message of his own. Then her voice came to 
him, so low that he could scarcely hear it, 
pregnant with pauses, eloquent with words in¬ 
distinguishable or unspoken. “Dick, dearest, 
don’t you see ... as long as we love each other, 
we could . . . you know what I mean . . . you 
have the run of the house . . . they never disturb 
us . . . nobody would know . . .” 

Again silence. For a moment Meredith, hardly 
believing that he had heard aright, was swayed 
and torn by stark, crude passion. Then, some 


130 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


far-off Puritan strain in his blood impelling him, 
he whispered, “We couldn’t, Dorothy; it wouldn’t 
be right.” 

“Yes, it would,” she answered, her tone pitched 
in the same key as his own. “Not for most peo¬ 
ple, but it’s right for us, because we really do 
love each other. It solves everything; all our 
troubles. You won’t lose me. I won’t lose you. 
There isn’t any harm . . .” 

Ready, only too ready to yield, he made a last 
desperate stand. “But we couldn’t, Dorothy,” 
he rejoined. “It wouldn’t be safe. You know 
what I mean . . .” 

“It would; it would,” she insisted eagerly. “I 
know all about it, Dick; there’s not the slightest 
danger. And no one will ever know. Please, 
Dick, dearest ... I love you too ... it will be 
so nice . . .” 

The last words were barely audible. Her head 
was on his breast, her eyes closed, her face 
colorless. Her whole relaxed form sought his. 
Flesh and blood could resist no longer. For 
Meredith, the whole world receded to a pin point. 
Passion, the more exquisite because half lawful, 
mastered him, surging like wildfire through his 
veins. One hand drew her to him; with the other 
he fumbled amid the laces at her breast. A fury 
of desire seized him. “God!” he muttered. 
“God!” 





























X 








Part II 
Is Now 







IX 


Sunshine 

Dick Meredith, stretched at ease on the window 
seat of his room and gazing absently out across 
the Yard, felt a sensuous enjoyment in the warmth 
of the soft June sunshine. Dreamily, through 
half-shut eyes, he noted the sharply contrasted 
colorings of the enclosure, framed by its halls of 
red and gray—the vivid green of the grass, the 
lighter green of the leaves, and over all the 
bright blue sky, dotted with fleecy clouds. 
Through the open window, joyously repeated 
came the rich, melodious song of an oriole, hid¬ 
den from view somewhere among the leafy tree- 
tops. Surely, thought Meredith, a beautiful and 
a wonderful world. 

Suddenly, from his dreaming he leaped back to 
life, drawing from his pocket the letter which had 
come in the morning mail. Slowly he re-read the 
single page of bold, clear handwriting: “Dear 
Dick, I have tamed Sir Galahad. He doesn’t know 
it yet, but he is eating out of my hand. I shan’t 
forget your kindness. Much love. Yours for 
reform, Stella.” 

Meredith, still holding the letter in his hand, 
continued to gaze reflectively through the win¬ 
dow, recalling his meeting with Franklin Endicott 
133 


134 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


in the Yard three months ago. “I suppose,” he 
mused, “I’m doing him a pretty rotten trick. 
But it’s his own fault. It was all done on the 
spur of the moment, anyway. If he hadn’t been 
so damned cocky and disagreeable that night, 
with his talk about religion and Sunday school 
and my being a time-waster, I would never have 
thought of Stella. I wouldn’t have thought of 
her anyway, if I hadn’t bumped into her that 
same evening. That gave me the idea, but I 
didn’t take it seriously, even then. She must have 
been clever, for Endicott’s no fool. But if she 
says she’s got him, I guess she has; she knows 
her business with men, all right. But just 
imagine their getting married—heavens above! 
When he’s once put his head into the noose, and 
then finds out what she’s really like—good night! 
She calls him Sir Galahad. Imagine Sir Galahad 
marrying Vivien. That’s a fair comparison. And 
Wally—good Lord! I suppose, if he knew about 
it, he’d never speak to me again.” Then, with a 
sudden hardening of his whole expression, he 
muttered, “Oh, well, it’s every man for himself; 
it’s a selfish world. Endicott can preach religion 
because he hasn’t got to worry about his bread 
and butter. Wally can reel off poetry by the 
yard because he’s fairly well fixed himself. But 
I—I need every cent I can get, and believe me, 
I’ll get it if I can. Endicott isn’t a baby, either. 
Suppose Stella does fool him, and gets a slice of 
his money and splits with me. That’s no crime. 
He’s out of luck, that’s all. He won’t be the 


SUNSHINE 


135 


first man to be fooled by a woman, or the last, 
either.” 

Down the Yard from Holworthy came George 
Farnsworth, captain of the track team, grim and 
serious of face as he pondered the chances of the 
Crimson against the Blue in the Stadium on the 
following afternoon. Looking up, and catching 
sight of Meredith at the window, he halted to 
call, “Hi, Dick! Feeling fit?” 

“Fine; never better,” Meredith returned, and 
as Farnsworth passed on, he realized how short 
a time intervened before he would throw the 
hammer against his burly rival from New Haven. 
“Guess I’d better rehearse a bit,” he murmured, 
and absent-mindedly tossing Stella’s letter down 
on the window seat, he took his stand in a clear 
space near the desk. “I wish I was sure of keep¬ 
ing in the circle, and not fouling,” he sighed. 
“Let’s see, now. Right foot here; left foot here. 
Knees a little bent; back straight, shoulders 
loose. Arms stretched as far as they’ll go.” And 
in the review of the intricacies of the complicated 
sport he forgot, for the moment, all else in life 
until presently, pulling his watch from his pocket, 
he stared at it in alarm. “My Lord!” he gasped. 
“My English conference! And three minutes to 
make it in!” And without even stopping for his 
cap, he dashed headlong from the room. 

For half an hour after his departure the study 
remained deserted, save for the presence of a 
huge bluebottle fly, which came droning in 
through the window to complete a leisurely cir- 


136 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


cuit of the room. Then silence again, until foot¬ 
steps once more sounded on the stairs, and 
Walter Randall entered. He tossed his hat on 
the table, and in unconscious imitation of his 
roommate, nervously consulted his watch, mur¬ 
muring, “Not quite time yet; I’ll give her five 
minutes more.” 

He sauntered aimlessly over to the window seat 
and extended his long legs luxuriously, picking 
up, as he did so, the note which Meredith had 
left behind him. Quite mechanically he had read 
it through before he realized that it was for his 
roommate and not for himself. “Now what the 
devil,” he speculated, “does this mean? Who is 
Sir Galahad, and what business is it of Dick’s, 
anyway? He always seems to be getting mixed 
up with all kinds of girls. The unfair sex seems 
to be his specialty.” Then, dismissing the whole 
matter from his mind, he jumped up abruptly and 
walked over to the telephone, standing for an 
instant with the air of one embarking on a 
hazardous undertaking. “Oh, Lord,” he quoted, 
half in jest, half in earnest, “if you want to help 
a fellow, now’s your chance!” And without fur¬ 
ther ado he removed the receiver from the hook 
and demanded University 7071. There followed 
a pause, and then, in well-remembered tones he 
heard, “Hello.” 

“Hello. Miss Rosamund Leslie? Walter Ran¬ 
dall speaking. When did you get back?” 

He spoke in as matter-of-fact a tone as pos¬ 
sible, listening intently for the inflection of her 


SUNS f l f N K 


137 


reply. And when after an instant her answer 
came, it was wholly without warmth. In fact, 
even to hi* optimistic spirit, her words carried 
with them an obvious chill, “I got in this morn- 
inK." 

Still hopefully: “Did you have a good time? 
I suppose New York is lively as ever,” 

Once more, with colrl politeness: “Thank you, 
I had a very pleasant time indeed.” 

Randall, forehead puckered into an anxious 
frown, desperately changed the method of his 
attack, “Miss Leslie, I'm going to ask a favor of 
you. Llease believe me, I’m in the most deadly 
earnest, \ want you to go with me to the track 
games with Yale in the Stadium tomorrow after 
noon, and then have supper with me afterwards 
at The Victorian, I've got a Jot \ want to tell 
you. After that, if you don't want to see me 
again, you needn't. But this one time 1 abso¬ 
lutely must see you. So please say 'yes',” 

Agonizing silence. Then, with perhaps the 
slightest possible rise in temperature, the voice 
came over the wire again, “Thank you, I'm 
afraid I can't. You see, f start to work Monday 
and I've so much to do. Thanks, though, for 
thinking of me,” 

No words could have been a more inspiring 
clue. “Thinking of you!” he ejaculated, “Good 
Lord, that's all I've been doing ever since you 
went away, That's what I haven't been doing 
anything else but; please, Miss Leslie, don't you 
understand? 1 can't talk over the telephone, but 


138 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


this is—why, it’s a matter of life and death. Eve 
got to see you, that’s all. Please, now. I’ll call 
for you at two.” 

Silence, lengthening appallingly until, not with¬ 
out reason, he misinterpreted it, and began to call 
vehemently, “Operator! Hello! You’ve discon¬ 
nected me—you’ve cut me off.” 

Then Rosamund’s voice, this time not without 
a trace of amusement, “Don’t get so excited, 
please, I’m still here. I was thinking; that was 
all.” Again silence, then, “Mr. Randall, while I 
was in New York I received a big bunch of 
violets every week, but the florist wouldn’t give 
me any information about the sender; he said 
he was bound to secrecy. Could you give me 
any information?” 

“I think I could,” Randall answered. “I was 
the culprit. Were they satisfactory?” 

“They were beautiful,” she admitted. And 
then, in accents distinctly more friendly, “How 
did you know they were my favorite flower?” 

“I didn’t,” Randall dared. “I just thought they 
matched your eyes. I thought they matched you. 
I think violets are the loveliest flowers in the 
world.” And to himself he added apprehensively, 
“Now she probably will get mad.” But when she 
spoke again, it was to query further. “When I 
got home, I found a splendid photographic en¬ 
largement of a pair of ducks. It’s a beautiful 
picture. Of course only one person could have 
sent that. But this candy—and the roses—are 
you responsible for those, too?” 


SUNSHINE 


139 


“Guilty,” he answered promptly, “on all three 
counts. And the prisoner throws himself on the 
mercy of the Court.” 

This time the pause was not so lengthy, and 
it seemed to him that the early chilliness of her 
tone had been followed by an appreciable thaw. 
“Well,” she admitted, “it was very kind of you. 
And about tomorrow—I don’t really want to go, 
but if it is going to give you any pleasure—” 

Like the traditional voyager, overtaken by 
maritime disaster, he grasped frantically at the 
proverbial straw. “That’s fine,” he interrupted. 
“You’re awfully good. Got to get to a lecture 
now. I’ll be there at two. Good-by.” And 
hastily replacing the receiver he sank back in 
his chair and passed his handkerchief over his 
heated brow. “Well,” he reflected. “So far, so 
good. I’m going to see her, anyway. But what 
a deuce of a long time till tomorrow!” 

Somehow, the leaden-footed hours finally 
passed, and two o’clock the next afternoon found 
him, under golden sun and azure sky, mounting 
the steps of Rosamund’s home. She herself came 
to the door, a vision in pale pink, as delicate and 
lovely as a wild rose, and as he took her hand 
he stood gazing at her with such an obvious 
sincerity of devotion that at length she queried, 
with a smile, “Well?” 

The monosyllable roused him, and in some 
embarrassment he released her hand. “Excuse 
me,” he said, “I was dreaming. When you opened 
the door, it made me think of that morning on 


140 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


the Cape. Only then you had on a dark blue 
skirt, and a gray sweater, and black silk—” 

“What a memory!” she interrupted. “You’re 
destined to be the editor of a ladies’ magazine.” 

“No, no,” he protested. “My memory doesn’t 
always work like that. But if I could remember 
my philosophy and anthropology and all the rest 
of it the way I remember every smallest incident 
of that morning on the Ledge, I’d be the first 
man in my class. I mustn’t get started, though,” 
he added. “That’s got to keep until tonight. Are 
we all set for the Stadium? If we are, let’s go.” 

“Speaking of tonight,” she observed, quite in 
her old friendly manner, as they walked along, 
“haven’t you picked out rather a sporty place? 
I hope you haven’t been getting dissipated since 
I left. Though I must say,” she added, as she 
glanced up at him, “that you don’t look it. You 
do look quite thin and worn, though, as if you 
had been studying tremendously hard.” 

“I have been grinding,” he admitted. “Every¬ 
one does at this time of year. But that isn’t the 
reason for the thin and worn expression; that is 
something else again. And as for tonight, I’ll 
confess I picked The Victorian just because it 
was a bit sporty. Neither of us will be apt to see 
our friends there. I don’t want to be interrupted 
tonight by any sociable outsiders; this is to be 
a strictly private and most exclusive affair.” 

“I see,” she assented, “and I’m really rather 
glad you. did choose The Victorian. It makes 
me feel just wicked enough without being too 


SUNSHINE 


141 


wicked. I’ll own up to a weakness for the bright 
white lights and some good music.” 

“And some good food, too, I hope,” he rejoined. 
“I’ve had a table reserved in the most secluded 
corner, and I’ve engaged a special waiter. In 
fact, I have rather spread myself on the evening’s 
program.” 

“That’s lovely,” she responded. “I’ll enjoy it 
tremendously, I know.” Then, as they left the 
Square and she noticed the stream of people all 
bound in the same direction as themselves, she 
added, “I’ve never seen a track meet with Yale. 
I didn’t realize there would be such a crowd.” 

“It is a good crowd,” he agreed. “Track has 
grown immensely in popularity in the last few 
years. But if you want to see a real crowd, just 
look ahead about six months and imagine this 
same street on the day of the Yale football game. 
It will be packed and jammed to suffocation, and 
speculators will be selling ill-gotten tickets at one 
hundred dollars a pair. That ought to be Dick’s 
big day; he’s pretty good with the hammer, but 
football is where he really shines. All-Armerica 
fullback—that’s some position to hold. By the 
way, I suppose Dorothy will be here today to 
watch him throw.” 

“No, she isn’t coming,” Rosamund answered. 
“She had a bad headache, and the sun is quite 
warm. She was disappointed of course, but she 
really didn’t feel like coming out.” 

“Too bad,” he sympathized. “I suppose Dick 
is as attentive as ever, for he’s never in the room. 


142 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


But he’s not communicative about his private 
affairs, and lately he’s been more clam-like than 
usual. Really cranky, to tell the truth. So I 
haven’t felt like jollying him.” 

“Yes, he’s been at the house a great deal, 
mother says,” she rejoined. “I haven’t had a 
chance for a real talk with Dorothy since my 
return, but I imagine they’re as devoted as ever. 
Though when I come to think of it, I didn’t think 
Dorothy seemed to be in the best of spirits, 
either. But, as I say, I haven’t had a real talk 
with her yet. Why, look there,” she suddenly 
broke off, “just ahead of us. There’s Stella. And 
with your cousin, too.” 

Randall looked. Indubitably, there were Stella 
Leslie and Franklin Endicott, the latter’s tall 
form looming conspicuously among the crowd. 
They were evidently engrossed in each other, and 
Randall noted with amusement that Stella’s hand 
was slipped through Endicott’s arm. “For 
heaven’s sake!” he exclaimed. “What do the 
books on etiquette tell us? Isn’t that a sure 
sign of an engagement?” 

“Oh, not necessarily,” she laughed. “Etiquette 
doesn’t count in these frivolous days. But 
doesn’t Stella look well? She’s a handsome girl, 
if she is my sister.” 

“Indeed she is,” Randall sincerely agreed. 
And in truth Stella Leslie, in white muslin with 
crimson ribbons at waist and throat, could have 
chosen no better or more striking foil for her 
dark loveliness. Like a flash, Randall thought 


SUNSHINE 


143 


of the note on the window seat. “Sir Galahad!” 
Of course. It was only too obvious. Uneasiness 
assailed him. “Eating out of my hand! I shan’t 
forget your kindness!” What did this mean? 
He knew nothing of Stella Leslie, Randall re¬ 
flected, save that she was undeniably beautiful 
and that she was Rosamund’s sister. She did not, 
however, he remembered, live at home. A bit 
of a “woman of mystery.” Still, Franklin Endi- 
cott was no fool, and the very last man in the 
world to make an idiot of himself over a woman. 
Doubtless it was all right, and none of Randall’s 
business, anyway. And the next moment, as they 
were swept through the narrow gateway, and 
emerged a few moments later into the glorious 
light and sunshine of the Stadium, he forgot 
everything else in the thrill that always precedes 
a contest, and in the still greater thrill of having 
Rosamund Leslie at his side. 

For the next two hours, under the kindly 
warmth of the June sun, the tide of victory 
alternately ebbed and flowed. Fleet sprinters, 
wearing the “H” or the “Y”, tore down the 
straightaway and hurled themselves, like human 
projectiles, at the narrow worsted that marked 
the finish line. Distance men, running the half- 
mile and the mile at a pace seemingly impossible 
to maintain, managed somehow to endure until 
the end, and giving their all in one last mad rush 
for the tape, battled, with drawn lips and burst¬ 
ing lungs, to gain a point for the Crimson or the 
Blue. In the enclosure within the track, athletes 


144 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


leaped over the high-jump bar, tore down at the 
“take-off” in the broad jump, and grasping their 
slender poles of bamboo, propelled themselves 
incredible distances from the ground in the spec¬ 
tacular pole vault. Huge guards and tackles, 
rating a track meet as mere child’s play after 
their battles on the gridiron, put the shot, hurled 
the discus and javelin, and sent the hammer 
hurtling through the air. Meredith strove 
valiantly in this last event, and finished a close 
second, only a few feet behind the blonde giant 
who, playing tackle for the Blue the Fall before, 
had made life a hazardous and unpleasant affair 
for opposing linesmen and backs, and had de¬ 
lighted the hearts of physicians and surgeons by 
supplying them with the raw material for inter¬ 
esting and unusual cures. Finally, with only the 
two hundred and twenty yards dash remaining, 
and with Yale but three points ahead, there came 
the moment for some Harvard athlete to immor¬ 
talize himself. Though the three Harvard men 
in the final strained themselves to the utmost, 
they could not catch the runner in blue who raced 
the distance with the steady, effortless stride of 
the born sprinter and broke the tape in twenty- 
one and two-fifths seconds, clinching the victory 
for Yale. 

Through it all, Randall, not without a vague 
sense of shame, realized that for the first time in 
his life his interest in Harvard’s fortunes was 
a poor second to his interest in the girl at his 
side. It was through her eyes that he watched 


SUNSHINE 


145 


the games, and it was her joy and her disappoint¬ 
ment which, in turn, left him stimulated or de¬ 
pressed. And as they walked slowly homeward, 
Randall felt his momentary sorrow for Harvard 
and his regret at his roommate’s defeat put to 
flight by one glance at Rosamund’s face. 

Loitering leisurely along, they were almost 
alone as they reached the Anderson bridge. And 
even as Randall and Meredith had stopped there 
three months before, to gaze at the glory of the 
afterglow, so now Rosamund and he instinctively 
came to a halt to admire the silvery windings 
of the river, the vistas of green beyond, and the 
blue sky splashed, like a painter’s palette, with 
vivid red and orange, pink and gold. Presently 
Rosamund turned to Randall to inquire, “Do you 
think you could stand a shock?” 

His face lengthened. “I don’t know,” he an¬ 
swered dubiously. “If you’re going to tell me 
you’ve met some chap in New York, and that 
you’re engaged to him — ” 

But immediately her laughter reassured him. 
“Oh, nothing like that,” she cried. “I meant per¬ 
haps rather a pleasant kind of a shock. Listen!” 
And again transferring her gaze to the sky, she 
repeated softly: 

‘The wan sun westers faint and slow; 

The eastern distance glimmers gray ; 

An eerie haze comes creeping low 
Across the little, lonely bay; 

And from the sky-line far away 
About the quiet heaven are spread 


146 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


Mysterious hints of dying day, 

Thin, delicate dreams of green and red.’ ” 

He gazed at her in mingled astonishment and 
delight. “Well, that is a shock,” he cried. “So 
you’ve actually been reading poetry ? That s 
Arthur Symons, isn’t it?” 

“Ah, I’ve caught you,” she replied in triumph. 
“No, that’s Henley’s Nocturne. You see, it was 
like this. I don’t know that I would ever have 
begun reading poetry if it hadn’t been for that 
morning on the Ledge. That coloring before the 
dawn made a great impression on me—I can see 
the scarlet line in the east now, and then those 
rosy clouds and then the sun! So when I was in 
New York I went into a bookstore and asked 
for a book with poems about the sun. They told 
me there wasn’t any such thing, so I had to start 
reading here and there for myself. I read Henley 
and Symons and Le Gallienne and Drinkwater 
and Masefield and a lot more and copied out the 
poems I liked about the sun. It was really quite 
thrilling.” 

“Splendid,” he agreed heartily. “And do you 
know, Rosamund, you’ve given me a wonderful 
idea. Let’s make two collections—poems of sun¬ 
rise and poems of sunset. I can think of half-a- 
dozen right away—Scott and Byron, Tennyson 
and Swinburne, Shelley and Browning, and the 
poets you’ve mentioned, too. And there must be 
plenty more. Wouldn’t that be fun to do?” 

“Indeed it would,” she assented. “And think 


SUNSHINE 


147 


how we could illustrate it, too. For the cover 
we could have the horses of the sun—you know 
the one I mean—” 

“Guido Reni?” he suggested. 

“Yes, of course. And Dorothy could help us; 
she knows quite a lot about the painters. You 
know—Turner and Innes and the rest. Oh, we 
could make a wonderful collection.” 

“Couldn’t we?” he rejoined with equal enthu¬ 
siasm; then paused a moment before he added 
with a whimsical smile, “I can see only one 
trifling objection; it would never sell. I know 
how publishers feel about poetry; they would 
prudently stipulate that we foot all the bills.” 

“Oh, well,” she answered, “we can make two 
manuscript copies, anyway; one for each of us. 
A strictly limited edition for private consump¬ 
tion.” 

“We’ll do it,” he agreed. “I’ll begin tomorrow. 
But honestly,” he continued, as they resumed 
their walk toward the Square, “I sometimes think 
that the pessimists are right; that religion is 
dead and that art is dying. The world seems to 
be degenerating into one huge pleasure chase— 
auction and mah jong, synthetic drinks and syn¬ 
thetic dancing, motors and movies. Take an 
evening like this, for instance. How many peo¬ 
ple appreciate it? Not one in a thousand. They 
can’t spare a minute a day to admire the glory 
of the earth.” 

“I’m afraid you’re right,” she agreed. “None 
of the girls I know care for anything but dancing 


148 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


and movies. But I,” she added, “was just about 
as bad until that morning last Spring. That 
sunrise seemed somehow to open my eyes; Eve 
never forgotten it.” 

“Neither have I,” he assented. “That’s one 
reason I’ve always loved shooting so much, not 
for the killing of the game but because pursuing 
them takes you out into the open, out into rough 
water and howling winds, out in the morning 
under the stars and back in the evening in the 
light of the afterglow. The man who misses all 
that misses half of life. But most of the world 
is blind. Why, I crossed the West Boston Bridge 
the other evening on a train running in to Park 
Street, and saw a sunset so marvelous that I 
simply had to speak to the man next me, though 
I could see that he was buried in his paper. 
‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘but just look at that sky.’ 
He stared at me vacantly, grunted an ‘Ugh?’ of 
interrogation, and when my meaning at last 
dawned on him, he gave one perfunctory glance 
at all that wonder, then scowled and dove back 
into his paper without a word. Presently I ven¬ 
tured to observe what he was reading. It was 
the sporting page, where red letters two inches 
high informed the world that the Braves were 
trailing the Giants in the eighth. Of course, after 
that, I felt sorry that I had burst in upon him 
with a little matter like the beauty of God’s 
universe.” 

As he finished speaking they reached the 
Square, and he returned abruptly to practical 


SUNSHINE 


149 


things. “What shall we do?” he queried. “Keep 
right on in town? We’re too early for dinner, 
but we could drop into one of those movies I’ve 
been criticizing.” 

“Indeed we won’t go right in town,” Rosa¬ 
mund retorted. “The ignorance of men is the 
most pathetic thing in the world. Did you really 
suppose I could go to The Victorian dressed 
like this?” 

“If you’re asking for my opinion,” he answered, 
subjecting her to a careful inspection, “I think 
you could go anywhere in that dress. In fact, 
I don’t see how you could possibly look any bet¬ 
ter than you do at the present moment.” 

She smiled as if not ill-pleased by his praise, 
but answered, “That’s ridiculous, and I know 
you’re not sincere. But if you like this dress, 
wait till you see the one I’m going to wear 
tonight. It’s a ‘creation’ I bought in New York. 
And it’s black and gold—what there is of it—and 
it makes me look terribly old and vampish and 
everything.” 

“I don’t believe it,” he rejoined. “ ‘Vampish,’ 
perhaps, and ‘everything,’ but you couldn’t look 
old if you tried.” 

“You just wait,” she insisted. “When you see 
me, you may be sorry you asked me. But I warn 
you. I love that dress, and I won’t change it for 
anybody in the world. So if you don’t want me 
that way, you can’t have me at all.” 

“I’ll take you,” he asserted boldly, “if you make 


150 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


Pola Negri look like Little Goody Two-Shoes. 
What could be fairer than that?” 

Her home reached, she ushered him into the 
cool, quiet parlor. “I really won’t be long,” she 
assured him, “and if Dorothy is feeling well 
enough, I’ll ask her to come down and keep you 
company. If she doesn’t come, just rest yourself 
and prepare for the shock of seeing my dinner 
gown.” 

He heard her light footstep ascending the stairs, 
and then, after quite an interval, a slower step 
descending, and Dorothy Morrison appeared in 
the doorway, her pallor making evident the 
reality of her indisposition. “Sorry you’re not 
feeling well,” he observed after greetings had 
been exchanged and she had taken her seat on 
the sofa. “Rosamund said she was going to 
ask you to come down to entertain me, but don’t 
have me on your mind, I beg of you.” 

She looked at him gravely, her face troubled. 
“I didn’t come down to entertain you,” she an¬ 
swered, “and it isn’t you that I have on my mind. 
It’s Rosamund. I want to talk to you seriously, 
please.” 

Randall, impressed by her manner, answered 
only with an interrogative “Yes?” and she con¬ 
tinued, “So that you won’t think this is none of 
my business, let me make clear to you all that 
Mrs. Leslie and Rosamund have done for me. 
When I came to Cambridge two years ago I was 
alone in the world, down on my luck, and alto¬ 
gether reckless and discouraged. Mrs. Leslie took 


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151 


me in, helped me get work, did everything for 
me. She’s been like a mother to me; Rosamund 
like a sister. And I want you to appreciate that 
there isn’t a nicer girl in the world than Rosa¬ 
mund. She’s one hundred per cent in every way.” 

Randall interrupted eagerly. “I know that. 
You don’t have to tell me. I’ve found that out 
for myself.” 

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” she responded, 
“but this is what I want you to realize,—that 
she is still very young. She knows what’s what, 
of course, but as girls go these days, she’s very 
innocent—what the Bible calls ‘pure in heart.’ 
Now you’ve been showering her with flowers 
and candy; you’ve asked her out this afternoon, 
and again this evening. That’s a good deal of 
attention to pay a girl. And I want to tell you 
this, that if you’re just carrying on a flirtation, 
an ‘affair,’ why it isn’t fair to Rosamund, and I’m 
not going to permit it. That’s pretty plain talk, 
Mr. Randall, but I mean it to be plain.” 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Randall crossed 
the room and seated himself on the sofa at 
Dorothy’s side. “My de^r Miss Morrison,” he 
said, “I respect you for speaking as you have, 
but believe me, there’s no chance for an argument 
between us. We agree absolutely. I think, as 
you do, that Rosamund is the most wonderful girl 
in the world, and my special purpose in asking 
her to dinner tonight is to beg her to marry me 
at her ‘earliest possible convenience’.” 

A look of intense relief passed over Dorothy’s 


152 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


face, mingled with some other and apparently 
less pleasing emotion which Randall found him¬ 
self unable to fathom. “Em so glad to hear you 
say that,” she answered, “and I hope sincerely, 
Mr. Randall, that she will say ‘y es ’*” 

“If she only will,” he sighed. “Have you any 
idea what my chances are? Do you think there’s 
anyone else?” 

“I don’t think so,” she rejoined, not without 
hesitation. “She does rave about this man who’s 
hired her—Hamlin, I think his name is. But 
she doesn’t really know him at all; she’s only 
met him two or three times. And I don’t 
imagine,” she added, “from Rosamund’s descrip¬ 
tion of him, that he’s the marrying kind, anyway.” 

“Yes, I know that type,” Randall answered 
grimly, “and a mighty poor type it is, too. They 
make trouble wherever they go, and for some 
unknown reason they’re just the kind the girls 
lose their heads over. Well, I’m going to hope 
for the best, anyway. Hullo, here’s the lady now.” 

Rosamund stood in the doorway, her wrap of 
dark blue velvet concealing her costume, save for 
a glimpse of bewitching high-heeled slippers and 
silk stockings. Then, stepping forward, she ex¬ 
tended her arms, and stood, like some lovely 
butterfly, revealing a costume of black satin re¬ 
lieved by palest gold, fitting her lithe figure to 
perfection. Randall gazed at her with evident 
admiration, and yet the old lurking Puritan strain 
in him must have somehow revealed itself, for 
Rosamund, her eyes fixed on his, asked chal- 


SUNSHINE 


153 


lengingly, “Do we go? Or am I too shocking?” 

“Oh, we go, all right,” Randall answered. “And 
you’re not too shocking—just shocking enough. 
But aren’t they getting economical with their 
goods? They’ve saved a lot on the neck, and the 
skirt—well, if they’d saved any more, there 
wouldn’t have been any skirt.” 

She laughed delightedly. “But the back,” she 
cried. “I shan’t show you that, or you might 
not take me, after all. Next to ‘The Follies,’ it’s 
the most inexpensive back you ever saw. Eco¬ 
nomical isn’t the word; it’s—it’s penurious.” 

“Well,” Randall laughed, “as long as you keep 
your cloak well wrapped around you till we get 
to The Victorian , you’re all right. We’re safe 
there; Venus rising from the sea wouldn’t startle 
that crowd.” 

Half way to the Square, the thought of Stella 
and Endicott slipped back into his mind, and he 
asked, “Does your sister spend much time at 
home ?” 

“Oh, no,” she answered, “she’s never at home. 
She’s too busy for that.” 

“Do you ever go to see her?” Randall in¬ 
quired. “Where is it she is staying?” 

“It’s near The Fenway” Rosamund replied. 
“But I never go there. The old couple she keeps 
house for are very peculiar; they don’t like her 
to have callers. But they are certainly good to 
her. The few times I’ve seen her, she’s had on 
lovely clothes and beautiful jewelry. Though she 
was dressed very simply today,” she added. 


154 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


“Yes, I saw her,” Randall answered. She s 
fortunate to have such a good position,” and 
forthwith permitted the subject to drop. 

An hour later, comfortably ensconced at their 
table behind the palms, Randall placed the elab¬ 
orate dinner card before his companion. “Now 
then,” he observed, “this is your night. You are 
to be as vulgarly greedy as you like. If you can 
get away with everything on the menu, I dare 
you to do it. I remember your appetite out on 
the Ledge that morning; you didn’t leave much 
for me.” 

“Oh, aren’t you horrid,” she pouted. “I had 
just exactly my half, and you had yours. I re¬ 
member perfectly.” 

He shook his head. “Sorry,” he rejoined with 
mock severity, “but you are in error. You had 
more than half of the coffee, almost all the fruit, 
and five sandwiches out of the eight. That is 
the honest truth.” 

“What a memory!” she cried. “Can you re¬ 
call every incident of that morning like that?” 

“Every single one,” he affirmed. “Right up 
to the landing on the beach—especially, I might 
say, the landing on the beach.” 

She blushed charmingly. “I think you’re hor¬ 
rid,” she declared. “A leaky old boat that you 
didn’t keep dry; no wonder I slipped.” 

He was about to answer, but just then the 
chrysanthemum-haired leader of the jazz band 
arose in his place, and with a sharp tap of his 
baton and a preliminary flourish, led his musicians 


SUNSHINE 


155 


into the seductive intricacies of the latest fox 
trot, “Mali Blue-eyed Baby, Come to Papa’s 
Arms.” Instantly, the tip of Rosamund’s slipper 
began keeping time with the music, and Ran¬ 
dall, with an affectation of carelessness, queried, 
“Care to dance?” 

“I’d love to,” she answered, “but I thought you 
didn’t like it.” 

“Well, we can try, anyway,” he responded, 
and an instant later they had joined the throng 
on the floor. Nor had they taken more than a 
half-dozen steps when she exclaimed, “Well, what 
a surprise! No wonder you wanted to show off. 
How came the marvelous change?” 

Randall beamed. “Wondered if you’d notice 
it,” he chuckled. “Thought I’d surprise you. 
I’ve been taking lessons ever since you left.” 

“Well, you are nice,” she sighed. “This is 
heavenly.” And until the dance ended neither 
spoke again. Randall, with the girl’s slender 
body pressed close to his, was experiencing that 
terrific thrill, not of brute passion, but of that 
far higher and more wonderful thing, passionate 
love. 

Dinner at last ended, Randall, thanking Provi¬ 
dence for the seclusion of their seat, leaned 
forward with a courage of which he would have 
been incapable three months ago, and began 
speaking abruptly: “You know perfectly well 
why I asked you here tonight. It won’t take 
me long to say it. I love you, Rosamund; I’ve 
loved you from the first moment I saw you. I’ll 


156 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


never love any other girl but you. Will you 
marry me?” 

For an instant she made no reply, but sat 
gazing at him, lips slightly parted with evidently 
genuine surprise. Then, as if discrediting her 
ears, she faltered, “You’re—you’re serious?” 

“Serious!” he echoed reproachfully. “Good 
heavens, Rosamund, of course I’m serious. I 
should think you could see that.” 

“But down on the Cape,” she persisted, “you 
had your chance that morning out on the Ledge. 
And you certainly didn’t give the impression of 
caring at all. And then afterwards, when you— 
well, when you kissed me—wouldn’t any girl 
have thought then that you were just amusing 
yourself, that you were just out for what you 
could get?” 

“I know it,” he admitted candidly. “I must 
have seemed like a rotter, but I wasn’t. How 
could I tell? I’d never been in love with a girl 
before; I didn’t even know the symptoms. But 
when you went away to New York, you can bet 
I knew then. I’ve thought of nothing else, Rosa¬ 
mund. I’ve lost sleep—lost weight—worried my¬ 
self sick. I was going to write, but I honestly 
didn’t dare. I thought it was better to hang 
on to some vestige of hope than to have you 
say ‘no.’ So I sent the flowers instead, think¬ 
ing you might understand. You’re the whole of 
life to me, Rosamund; I’ll do anything—every¬ 
thing—in the world to make you happy. And I 


SUNSHINE 


157 


could make you happy—I know I could. Won’t 
you please say ‘y es ’?” 

She still sat gazing at him, as if to read his 
very heart. Then presently, “You’re really ter¬ 
ribly imprudent. Suppose, for a moment, that I 
were like so many girls, absolutely selfish and 
cold-blooded, just out to better myself in the 
world. I have no money, I have no social posi¬ 
tion; you have both. What’s to prevent me from 
saying ‘yes’ this instant, even if I didn’t care 
for you in the least?” 

He looked at her with adoration in his eyes. 
“Do you think you’re frightening me?” he de¬ 
manded. “I’ll tell the world you’re not. Go 
ahead and say ‘yes.’ I’ll take you even on those 
terms, and be glad of the bargain. Go ahead, 
cold-blooded adventuress, say ‘yes’.” 

She smiled, as if not ill-pleased, but shook her 
head. “Oh, you can say that,” she answered. 
“You may even think you mean it, but you don’t. 
There would be only unhappiness in the end.” 

He leaned forward in his eagerness. “But 
Rosamund,” he urged, “why suppose all this? 
Don’t you care for me just a little? You seemed 
to like me down at the Cape. You know what 
I mean. We got on so well. And we’ve enjoyed 
ourselves today—and tonight. I’ve learned to 
dance; you’ve learned to appreciate poetry.” He 
stopped abruptly to make a gesture toward the 
dance floor,—the lights, the music; then he con¬ 
tinued, “We’ll do this all the time, if you want 
to. I’ll change my whole life to please you. Oh, 


158 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


you don’t understand, Rosamund. If you knew 
how I wanted you—” 

“You’ve quite lost your head,” she interrupted. 
“I’m not worth all this.” 

“Lost my heart, you mean,” he retorted, “or 
both, if you say so. I’m simply being honest, 
Rosamund—dear. I’m simply telling you the 
tru th—that you’re the loveliest girl in the whole 
world, and I can’t and won’t live without you.” 

“But how perfectly reckless,” she again ob¬ 
jected. “We hardly know each other. A day 
at the Cape—this afternoon. And now tonight. 
And you’re asking me to marry you. Can’t you 
see that it’s absurd?” 

“Well, let it be absurd,” he rejoined doggedly. 
“Love is absurd, I suppose. It isn’t like book¬ 
keeping. Anyway,” he persisted, “you don’t 
say ‘no.’ You don’t hate me, do you?” 

“Of course I don’t,” she answered. “You 
know that, or I wouldn’t be here tonight. Only—” 

At once he interrupted, asking the question 
reiterated so many millions of times by anxious 
lovers, “Is there anyone else? You said there 
was no one in New York. Is it this man you’re 
going to work for—this Hamlin? Don’t tell 
me you care about him.” 

“Of course not,” she answered readily enough. 
“Why, I don’t know him either. That’s what I 
mean. I’m young still; I’m eighteen—‘going 
on nineteen,’ as the children say. I’d like to have 
a little fun before I settle down to—well, to 
matrimony. And you’re not really in Methu- 


SUNSHINE 


159 


selah’s class. You may meet twenty girls that 
you like more than you do me”—she stopped 
to smile at the fiercely denying shake of his 
head—“and I might meet twenty young men that 
I liked better than—oh, don’t look so tragic, 
please. I’m only supposing. Don’t you get the 
idea ?” 

He reflected long and earnestly, then unwill¬ 
ingly sighed a partial assent. “I—suppose so,” 
he said at length. “But you’re not discouraging 
me altogether; you’re not ‘turning me down’? 
As I understand it, you’re willing to keep on 
going around with me for awhile, till you’ve had 
a chance to look over the field and make up your 
mind. But in the meantime, I may be—what 
did they call it in the good old days—a ‘suitor,’ 
that’s it, a ‘suitor for your hand’?” 

She looked at him earnestly, noting his clear- 
cut features and his honest brown eyes,—a face 
the reverse of effeminate, and yet with a refine¬ 
ment unusual in a man. And with a frankness 
equal to his own, she replied, “That’s it exactly. 
And believe me, I appreciate all the nice things 
you’ve done for me. And don’t misunderstand 
what I’ve said. I do like you, very much, and 
when I was in New York, I-—thought about you, 
too.” 

He raised a protesting hand. “Don’t!” he 
warned her. “Don’t tell me such things, or 
you’ll get me started again. We’ll devote the 
rest of this evening to dancing and mirth.” 

It was on the stroke of eleven that Rosamund 


160 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


sighed, in the midst of a celestial fox trot, “I 
must go. My mother doesn’t care for late hours, 
and I’m a little worried about Dorothy; she 
really doesn’t seem well at all. So we had better 
march along.” 

“I’ll get a taxi,” he answered. “It will only 
take a minute.” 

“Indeed you won’t” she protested. “There’s 
no need of going to that expense. A street car 
is good enough.” 

“Tonight,” he reminded her, “is my night. This 
may be the only chance I have to be the boss, 
so I’ll make the most of it. Back to Cambridge 
we go in a taxi, and that’s that.” 

She had taken her seat, and he had given the 
address to the driver and had his foot on the 
step when he noticed a second taxi which had 
just drawn up behind them, and from which a 
man had alighted, extending his hand to his 
companion. The girl, strikingly handsome, attired 
in a daring evening gown of blue and silver, held 
his eye for an involuntary second, and in that 
instant he saw that it was Stella Leslie. Then 
he jumped into the motor, and in a twinkling 
they had left The Victorian behind. 


II 


Shadow 

At the doorway of her home, Rosamund ex¬ 
tended her hand to Randall in farewell, while he, 
regardless of the waiting taxi thrumming and 
throbbing at the gate, held it in both his own 
as though loth to bring their evening to a close. 

“I hate to say good night,” she murmured. 
“It has been too lovely—everything.” 

Her face, upturned to his, aroused in him 
irresistible desires. “Do you know what I’m 
thinking of?” he asked. “Of that day on the 
beach, and the slippery boat.” 

Her glance was one of mock reproof, infinitely 
more alluring than a smile of frank permission. 
“But you shouldn’t,” she whispered. “You 
oughtn’t to think of such things.” Yet despite 
her words, there was that in her tone which 
made him suddenly draw her to him and repeat 
the kiss which had burned in his memory for 
three long months. As she withdrew from 
his embrace and disappeared within, he stood 
motionless, like a man awakening from a dream, 
and then, leaving Rosamund and romance behind 
him, regained the taxi and reluctantly enough 
came back to earth. 

Back to The Victorian” he ordered the 

161 


162 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


highwayman at the wheel, and as he jounced 
merrily along toward Boston, he began, with all 
the concentration he could muster, to lay plans 
for a bit of amateur detective work. By the 
time he had arrived at his destination, he felt 
certain of the course he would pursue. 

“Here’s a couple of dollars extra,” he observed 
to the chauffeur, as he paid his fare, “and I 
want you to wait across the street and be ready 
for me when I come out. I may want you to 
keep another car in sight, and if I do, I’ll make 
it worth your while. Get me?” 

The driver nodded, as if this was by no means 
the first time he had listened to similar instruc¬ 
tions. “Sure thing,” he responded briefly. “J ust 
give me a whistle when you’re coming, and I’ll 
be all set.” 

“Sure thing,” Randall answered in his turn, 
and for the second time that evening he entered 
the cafe, suppressing a smile at the thought of 
conduct so unusual to him, and of future conduct 
even more extraordinary which might be de¬ 
manded by the exigencies of his new role. First 
of all, he walked leisurely down the lounge lead¬ 
ing to the cafe, observing, as he did so, the 
various young women who were seated or stroll¬ 
ing about, obviously unattached and open to 
offers of a lucrative nature. Unfortunately for 
Randall, however, they were without exception 
of the same pronounced type,—expensively 
gowned, unduly painted, powdered and pencilled, 
with viperine lips of a gory crimson. These were, 


SHADOW 


163 


Randall was forced to admit, frankly impossible 
even for an amateur detective. It would be bet¬ 
ter to have his plans fail utterly than to ally 
himself with such dubious company. As he neared 
the desk, glancing discreetly about him he per¬ 
ceived a girl of a very different type, young, and 
with color apparently quite independent of the 
apothecaries. And while she undeniably pos¬ 
sessed, like Randall himself, a roving eye, it was 
none the less free from the obvious sophistica¬ 
tion of her sisters of the craft. His glance met 
hers—lingered—she smiled engagingly; and Ran¬ 
dall, marveling somewhat at his own courage, 
stepped forward, and without wasting time in 
preliminaries, inquired, “Won’t you have supper 
with me?” 

The girl rose with alacrity. “I wouldn’t mind,” 
she admitted, and a moment or two later Ran¬ 
dall found himself once more seated at a com¬ 
paratively secluded table enacting the part of the 
gay young man about town. “Now,” he ob¬ 
served, as he passed the card to his companion, 
“if you’ll look that over and see what you want—” 
and feeling confident that he had engaged her 
attention for a brief period, he began searching 
eagerly for a glimpse of Stella. “She had on 
something silvery and something blue, and not 
much of either,” he recollected, and the next 
instant caught sight of her among the crowd 
which still thronged the dance floor. He could 
not help thinking that she did not appear to be 
greatly enjoying herself; her expression, indeed, 


164 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


seemed to indicate that she was going through 
the evolutions of the dance in an entirely per¬ 
functory manner. Yet, even as Randall watched 
her, her companion made some remark, and as if 
rousing herself, she answered him vivaciously 
enough, and with a most entrancing smile. An 
instant later the dance ended, and Randall per¬ 
ceived that he had returned none too soon, for 
as Stella and her companion threaded their way 
back to their table, the man drew a roll of bills 
from his pocket in evident preparation for paying 
the waiter, while Stella adjusted her cloak in 
readiness to depart. Without ceremony, Ran¬ 
dall pulled out a ten dollar note, tossed it on 
the table, and hurriedly arose. “Got to tele¬ 
phone,” he hastily explained. “Very important. 
Enjoy yourself. Good-by.” And without stop¬ 
ping to notice either the surprised expression on 
his companion’s face or the rapidity with which 
she appropriated the bill, he hurried out and pre¬ 
pared his driver for the appearance of the couple 
he wished to follow. 

A moment later, they emerged from the cafe, 
crossed the street to a point a little in front of 
where Randall sat waiting, and entered a taxi. 
After a brief pause, the car started off in the 
direction of The Fenway. “A perfect cinch,” 
muttered Randall to himself, and to the driver 
he urged, “Don’t lose them now, for heaven’s 
sake!” 

The pursuit, however, was to be of unexpected¬ 
ly brief duration, for after a very few minutes 


SHADOW 


165 


Randall’s driver, turning a sharp corner, pulled 
up abruptly. “They’ve stopped,” he whispered, 
and Randall could see the other taxi halted half 
way down on the right hand side of the street, 
the couple in the act of alighting. At once he 
stepped from his own car and slipped a bill into 
the driver’s hand. “Much obliged,” he muttered. 
“Shan’t need you again tonight.” 

As his cab turned and sped away into the 
darkness he crossed the street and walked non¬ 
chalantly along until he had reached a position 
opposite the house from which the taxi which had 
held his quarry was just departing. The coast 
thus cleared, he stepped into a convenient door¬ 
way, and took deliberate stock of his surround¬ 
ings. The building opposite was the ordinary 
type of four-story apartment house. Lights 
gleamed in the lower and upper stories, but the 
second and third were dark. “Now then,” he 
calculated, “unless I’m a pretty dumb detective, 
I will find out where they live—or where she 
lives—in a very few moments.” And sure enough, 
before a minute had elapsed, lights shone in the 
windows on the third floor, and he saw Stella 
Leslie come forward and draw the shades. At 
once Randall crossed the street, entered the 
doorway of the apartment house, and in the 
dim light tried to decipher the name on the 
card which was inserted in the space above the 
bell connecting with the third floor. Resorting 
to the aid of a match Randall read, “Miss Mabel 
Moore.” 


166 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


“So,” he murmured to himself. “I should say 
the plot was beginning to thicken. A ‘nom de 
plume’ or a ‘nom de guerre,’ or whatever kind 
of a ‘nom’ you want to call it. I should say that 
I am a pretty good detective for a beginner; the 
celebrated Holmes hasn’t much on me.” And care¬ 
fully noting the name and the number of the 
house in his notebook, he started for home. But 
as he walked along, his mood of levity deserted 
him, as he began to realize the real seriousness 
of the situation. “Franklin Endicott,” he mused, 
“the holy, the pious, the straight-laced, bull¬ 
headed representative of the Back Bay—he took 
that girl to the Stadium this afternoon. Well, 
it’s none of my business, of course, but he is my 
cousin, and he ought to know the truth.” Then, 
dismissing the affairs of others from his mind, 
he began luxuriously to review all the happen¬ 
ings of the evening, with Rosamund’s face, her 
eyes, her smile, filling him with roseate dreams 
of anticipatory delight. 

In the meantime, Rosamund had entered the 
house, and running quickly upstairs, tapped 
lightly at the door of Dorothy’s room. There 
was a moment’s silence before a voice, sounding 
strangely faint and muffled, called, “Come in,” 
and Rosamund, pushing open the door, entered, 
only to find the study unoccupied. The same 
voice, quite unlike Dorothys’ own, called again 
from the bedroom, “I’m in here,” and it was 
there that Rosamund found her. She was still 
fully dressed, lying prone upon her couch, her 


SHADOW 


167 


face was pale and drawn, hands clenched tight, 
her breathing quick and labored, as though she 
was fighting hard for self-control. Rosamund 
dropped on her knees by the side of the bed, to 
find that the hand she clasped in hers was cold as 
stone. “Dorothy dear,” she cried, “what is the 
matter? Are you worse?” 

It was some moments before Dorothy was able 
to speak. Then, both hands entwined in Rosa¬ 
mund’s as if for actual physical support, she 
gasped brokenly, half in tears, “Oh, Rosamund, 
I’ve got to tell you; I must tell someone. I’ve 
done a wicked thing. I’ve lied to you. I told 
you Dick said he’d wait for me; I didn’t tell 
you why he was willing to wait. I—I told him 
he could—you know—live with me—until the 
Fall, and we’d be married then. It was all my 
fault; he didn’t want to do it. I—I made him. 
It was shameless—” 

“Dorothy!” Rosamund’s cry was eloquent of 
horrified amazement, and while she made no 
motion to withdraw her hand, her whole atti¬ 
tude and her expression—eyes widened, lips 
parted—presented a picture of shocked dismay. 

“I know it; I know it,” was Dorothy’s answer 
to all that was so clearly implied in Rosamund’s 
tone. “There’s no excuse. Only—he wouldn’t 
wait until the Fall to be married, and I couldn’t 
give him up. You know very well that I’m crazy 
about him; do you think I was going to let some 
other girl have him, and regret it all my life? 


168 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


Of course I wasn’t. So I thought of—this. 1 
couldn’t see the harm—” 

She stopped abruptly, her face gray and 
ghastly with repressed suffering, and there was 
silence until Rosamund, partly recovering her¬ 
self, inquired, “But since you’ve done it, Dorothy, 
why feel so badly now? I should think it was the 
old story of the first plunge; once you’ve taken 
that, nothing else matters. He still loves you, 
doesn’t he? He’ll marry you? Why, he’ll 
have to.” 

Urged by sudden impulse, Dorothy sat bolt 
upright and looked her friend squarely in the 
eyes. “That’s not it,” she cried. “Of course he 
still loves me. Of course he would marry me. 
That’s not the trouble. If you have to have it 
in plain English, Rosamund, I’m pregnant—I 
have been for three months. Now do you under¬ 
stand?” 

With a quick intake of her breath, and with a 
gesture as instinctive as Dorothy’s own, Rosa¬ 
mund withdrew the hand that her friend had 
grasped, as though it had been defiled by some¬ 
thing unclean. Fortunately for Dorothy’s peace 
of mind, she was too distraught to notice or to 
understand. “I thought,” she went on defen¬ 
sively, “that there was no danger. I saw that 
woman; she told me if I did as she said nothing 
could possibly happen. I took every precaution. 
But she lied to me. And now—O God! O God!” 

She buried her face in her hands, as if seeking 
to hide her shame, and her shoulders shook with 


SHADOW 


169 


long, gasping breaths which she strove in vain 
to check. Again there fell silence. Then Rosa¬ 
mund, trying studiously to keep from her voice 
the repulsion which had seized her, queried, 
“What about Dick? Does he know?” 

Dorothy raised her head. “Dick know?” she 
echoed. “Of course not. Don’t you see that I 
can’t tell him? If I did, he would insist on our 
being married at once, and that’s the one thing 
I’ve been trying to avoid, the one thing that 
mustn’t happen. Surely you can see that.” 

Rosamund was silent. Swept off her feet by 
the appalling news, it was hard at first to regain 
her mental balance and to view the affair calmly 
from all sides. “You mean,” she said at last, 
“that if Dick knew, he would insist on marriage 
so that the child wouldn’t be—” 

“Illegitimate,” Dorothy supplemented fiercely. 
“You needn’t be afraid to mince words; there 
are uglier ones than that. Yes, that’s it, of 
course; Dick’s first thought would be to save 
my name—and the child’s. I suppose we could 
get married and sneak away somewhere and never 
come back here as long as we lived. But that 
would mean losing everything I’ve fought for; all 
that I’ve sacrificed myself for. It would be the 
end of Dick. It’s only a few months now until 
Fall practice begins, and as far as brilliancy goes, 
you might almost say that Dick is the whole 
Harvard backfield. It would have been bad 
enough if he’d married me three months ago, but 
now it would be absolutely impossible. Why, 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


170 

there would be a storm of protest, the country 
over. It would focus the eyes of thousands of 
Harvard graduates on Dick and me, and the eyes 
of tens of thousands of others who follow every 
move in the football game. Sooner or later, 
the story would leak out; there would be a hor¬ 
rible scandal. We might as well kill ourselves 
and have it over. No, one thing is certain; Dick 
mustn’t know.” 

She ceased abruptly, and Rosamund spoke 
again: “I don’t think, Dorothy, you realize what 
you’re saying. Even if you can keep the truth 
from Dick—and I don’t see how you can much 
longer—even if you could manage to go away 
somewhere by yourself until it’s over, and then 
return, and Dick never know or suspect; admit¬ 
ting all that, what will you have done? You will 
have brought a child into the world, motherless, 
fatherless. Could anything, positively anything, 
that might happen to you and Dick, be worse 
than that? It couldn’t, Dorothy; you ought to 
tell Dick at once.” 

Dorothy gazed at her fiercely, her eyes smol¬ 
dering with resentment. “I’ll do nothing of the 
kind,” she retorted. “You’re absolutely wrong, 
Rosamund. I’m thinking of Dick, and of Dick 
only. Everything has been my fault, and I’ll 
take the consequences. If there’s a hell to go to 
when we die, I’ll go there and take what’s com¬ 
ing to me. But there’s one thing I won’t do; I 
won’t ruin Dick’s life. Anything in the world 
but that.” 


SHADOW 


171 


Words and tone made it clear to Rosamund 
that further protest would be of no avail. So 
when she spoke again it was to more practical 
effect. “Have you seen a doctor?” she asked. 

“Not yet,” answered Dorothy, “but I’m going 
to next week. Wednesday afternoon. I’ve made 
the appointment.” 

“To whom are you going?” Rosamund inquired. 

For an instant Dorothy seemed to hesitate; 
then she flung out a trifle defiantly, “To Pres¬ 
cott Earle.” 

Rosamund looked at her in surprise. “How did 
you come to choose him?” she asked. “He’s not 
a specialist, is he? I thought he spent most of 
his time looking after the Harvard athletes.” 

“He does,” Dorothy answered indifferently. “I 
suppose I thought of him because your brother 
is always talking about him. Joe considers him 
quite ideal, as you know. But I don’t imagine 
it makes much difference what doctor you choose, 
if he’s a man of reputation. They’re probably 
all about equally good—” 

But Rosamund, her face flushed, broke in upon 
her passionately. “Of course it makes a differ¬ 
ence,” she cried. “Now I understand why you’re 
going to Doctor Earle; I was stupid not to see 
it at first. He’s heart and soul for Harvard; 
that’s what he is paid for. And he’s heart and 
soul for the Harvard football team. He wouldn’t 
let anything stop Dick from playing. So you’re 
going to him to get this fixed or hushed up 
somehow; you’re going to him for advice and 


172 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


attention because you know you’ll get the very 
advice and attention you wish. Dorothy, I 
wouldn’t have believed it of you. Absolutely, it’s 
not fair. You have no right to do such a thing. 

Dorothy had never heard Rosamund speak so 
decidedly. For the first time in their lives, they 
were genuinely at odds. But now, with her nerves 
on edge from ceaseless worry and anxiety, in¬ 
stead of trying to conciliate her friend she posi¬ 
tively welcomed the difference. I don t care in 
the least what you think—” she had begun hotly, 
when they were suddenly aware of Mrs. Leslie’s 
voice, weary and impatient, “Girls, girls, go to 
bed. I can’t sleep for your chattering. Don’t 
you know it’s long after midnight? Go to bed.” 

Rosamund arose, but Dorothy once more 
grasped her by the hand. “Of course you under¬ 
stand,” she whispered, “you’re not to tell a soul. 
I simply had to talk to someone; if I had realized 
how you would feel, I wouldn’t have troubled 
you.” 

She might have hoped that her words would 
pave the way for a reconciliation, but Rosamund, 
chaste as Diana, withdrew her hand without so 
much as meeting Dorothy’s glance. “You have 
my promise,” she answered coldly. “It’s not the 
kind of thing I should be apt to discuss; I can’t 
believe it even yet. But I still think you should 
go to anyone rather than to Doctor Earle.” 

Dorothy, feeling herself repulsed, again turned 
defiant. “Well, I shall go to Doctor Earle,” she 
retorted. “I shall keep my appointment with 


SHADOW 


173 


him, and I feel sure that he will have some sym¬ 
pathy for me. I never expected anything like 
this from you; I thought I was doing the wisest 
thing.” 

For a moment Rosamund paused, as if to 
answer her. Then, realizing the futility of fur¬ 
ther argument, she turned and walked quickly 
from the room. 


XI 


Tangled Threads 

It was shortly after three o’clock on the fol¬ 
lowing Wednesday afternoon. Prescott Earle sat 
at his desk in his Marlborough Street office, his 
keen glance fixed on the girl who faced him, 
repeating her story with averted eyes. Evidently 
the young physician was not easily taken by sur¬ 
prise, for he listened in silence,—detached, judi¬ 
cial, not a flicker of emotion disturbing the 
habitual calm of his features. Even after Dor¬ 
othy had finished he seemed in no haste to reply, 
so that she ventured to break the silence with 
the timid suggestion, “I don’t suppose there’s 
any way—I don’t suppose you would—you 
could—” 

Her meaning was unmistakable. He looked 
at her gravely. “My dear young lady,” he an¬ 
swered, “did you ever happen to read Schopen¬ 
hauer’s speculations on the birth of the human 
soul?” 

She shook her head helplessly. 

“If you had,” he continued, “you probably 
wouldn’t have asked the question you did. You 
are carrying a human body within yours; and if 
you happen to believe in souls, as many people 
still do, you are carrying not only a human body 


TANGLED THREADS 


175 


but a human soul. Therefore, to talk of mur¬ 
dering a human being, with a body and a soul, 
simply because it is unable to protect or to de¬ 
fend itself, is—what shall we say?—well, wholly 
apart from law and ethics, it’s scarcely what 
you would call sporting. I feel certain, there¬ 
fore, that if you had chanced to be familiar with 
Schopenhauer, you would never have considered 
such a thing.” 

She looked at him sharply, wondering whether 
irony or cynicism lurked beneath his words, but 
the manner in which his eyes met hers seemed 
to leave no possible doubt of his sincerity. Clear¬ 
ly, this phase of the discussion was at an end. 
So Dorothy wasted no time in asking, “Then 
what do you suggest?” 

Prescott Earle, unhurried, deliberate, made no 
reply, his gaze fixed meditatively upon the sun¬ 
shine in the street outside. At length he spoke. 
“I take it,” he assumed, “that you came to me 
not only to consult me professionally, but also 
to ask my advice as a friend of Dick’s, and, I 
hope, as a friend of yours, as well.” 

She nodded. “Precisely,” she agreed. 

“Then,” he continued, “I have no hesitation in 
saying that I assent entirely to what you have 
stated as your own point of view. I think that 
marriage at the present time would be a calam¬ 
ity; I should advise you to choose any course 
but that. And if it is possible for me to aid you 
in any legitimate way, I shall be only too glad 
to do so.” 


176 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


Dorothy breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m so 
glad you agree with me,” she answered. I 
realize how terribly unfortunate this is, and I 
have only the time-worn excuse that I meant 
everything for the best.” 

“Em sure of it,” he answered. “Dick was a 
fool in the first place; he should have done as 
you wished and been married in the Fall. Still 
he’s only a boy, and after seeing you I can quite 
understand, if you will permit me to say so,, why 
he was unwilling to wait. However, that is all 
past and done with; our task now is to extricate 
ourselves from an unpleasant situation. 

“Exactly,” she again assented. “I’ve consid¬ 
ered so many plans, but none of them seem really 
feasible. I’ve begun to fear that it’s a problem 
we can’t solve.” 

“Oh, we can solve it all right,” he answered 
confidently. “For example, here’s a suggestion: 
You haven’t been feeling just up to the mark, so 
you come to me for advice. I look you over 
and find that you are run down, anaemic, that 
there is even a slight—a very slight—tendency 
toward trouble with your lungs. I advise you to 
try the dry air of Arizona for six months, guaran¬ 
teeing you a complete cure and no return of your 
trouble. You agree. I talk with Dick, and con¬ 
vince him that this is the only proper course to 
pursue. He agrees. You depart, remain six 
months, and return cured. It is so far away 
that Dick can’t very well go to see you. If he 
should wish to, we would prevent it.” 


TANGLED THREADS 


177 


Her face had brightened while he was speaking. 
“You’re very clever,” she said admiringly. “That 
solves almost everything, especially so far as 
Dick is concerned. As you suggest, he couldn’t 
come to see me. For one thing, he will be tied 
down to his camp work all summer, and the 
moment he is through with that, football practice 
will begin. I think your plan is wonderful, Doc¬ 
tor. Only—” 

“Only what?” he queried, as she paused. “Don’t 
keep anything back. Let’s face all the difficul¬ 
ties now, and if I can solve them, I will. What’s 
on your mind?” 

“Nothing important,” she confessed, “only an 
unreasonable dread of going away so far—in this 
condition—among strangers. If I could only 
be nearer home—” 

“You can,” he answered promptly. “I hadn’t 
finished what I was saying. You won’t really go 
West at all. You’ll send letters there, which will 
be re-mailed to Dick by a friend of mine upon 
whom we can rely. Where you will actually go 
is to a quiet little town in this very State, away 
up among the hills. There you will stay, abso¬ 
lutely in peace and quiet, with a woman who is 
under great obligations to me, and who would cut 
off her hand for me if I told her to. There is 
an excellent general practitioner in the town who 
will look after you, and I shall always be within 
call—a matter of two hours in a good motor. In 
fact,” he added encouragingly, “if you will only 
take this philosophically and not worry about it, 


178 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


you can manage really to enjoy yourself. It will 
be just like a vacation.” 

Dorothy reflected. “And vacations,” she ob¬ 
served at length, “are always expensive. Who 
pays for mine?” 

“I do,” he answered instantly. “Let me be 
entirely frank with you. You are considering 
Dick’s interests; so am I. But I have another 
stake in the game that is vitally important to 
me, and that is the retention of Harvard’s seri¬ 
ously threatened prestige in the East. And right 
or wrong, this prestige, as you well know, de¬ 
pends to an absurd and wholly illogical extent on 
our athletic victories. Therefore, as I told you 
just now, I’m willing to do practically anything 
to keep Dick eligible for the big games. I’ll see 
that you have every attention; I’ll foot all the 
bills; and when the youngster arrives, I’ll guar¬ 
antee good care and a good home. How does 
that sound?” 

“It sounds wonderful,” she rejoined. “You’ve 
taken a great load from my mind. Only—about 
what’s coming—I can’t help worrying about that. 
Some people think it’s a crime to bring a child 
into the world like this.” 

Prescott Earle raised his eyebrows. “Really, 
I can’t agree,” he answered. “I know my views 
are unorthodox, but I look at these matters in 
this way. Somebody or something—for con¬ 
venience let’s call it God—creates us with certain 
imperious and rather inconvenient instincts. We 
follow these instincts because we can’t help our- 


TANGLED THREADS 


179 


selves, and when trouble ensues, we place the 
blame, with sublime illogicality, upon ourselves 
instead of putting it where it belongs. There¬ 
fore, considering all the complexities of life, I am 
never properly shocked at sexual indiscretions; 
the wonder to me is that we behave as well as 
we do. But let me suggest this: if your con¬ 
science really troubles you, I don’t see why, after 
you’re married, you shouldn’t tell Dick the whole 
story. Then you could make it a matter of 
adoption, and you would have your child, as if 
nothing irregular had happened. Isn’t that a 
distinctly original idea? There’s a poetic justice 
about it that I like.” 

She gazed at him in wonder. “You’re mar¬ 
velous,” she cried. “You have a solution for 
every problem. It all seems plain sailing now. 
Unless Dick should object to my going away.” 

“He can’t,” he answered. “He won’t like the 
idea, at first, but since it’s a case of your health, 
he can’t object. Don’t worry about Dick; leave 
him to me.” 

And thus it was with the feeling of a huge 
weight lifted that Dorothy regained the open air, 
walked leisurely downtown and spent the re¬ 
mainder of the afternoon in the shopping section, 
recalling, as if in a dream, the afternoon in 
February when she had made her preparations 
for Dick’s coming, never dreaming of the trouble 
that the future held in store. As the afternoon 
drew slowly to a close and she neared her home 
she found Walter Randall just emerging from 


180 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


the gate. He relieved her of her bundles and 
turned back with her toward the house, remark¬ 
ing, as he glanced at her, “You look awfully 
pale and tired, Dorothy; not the thing at all.” 

“I’m not too well,” she admitted. “In fact, 
the doctor has ordered me to go away for a rest. 
You might ask Dick to drop around tonight, if 
he can.” 

“I’ll tell him,” he answered. “I’m sorry, Dor¬ 
othy. It’s nothing really serious, is it?” 

“No, no,” she responded, “I shall be all right. 
But how about you, Walter? You’re not looking 
so radiant yourself.” 

He smiled ruefully. “Mine is the same old 
complaint,” he sighed. “Chronic heart trouble. 
I came-4jo see Rosamund, and I find she’s out for 
the evening.” 

“Oh yes, I remember,” she replied. “She told 
me she was going motoring with her boss.” 

Randall’s face darkened. “Confound his nerve,” 
he muttered. “And I do wish,” he added, “that 
she wouldn’t go around this way. What does 
she know about this Hamlin? I’ll bet a dollar 
he’s a rotter.” 

“I’m afraid he is,” Dorothy admitted. “Dick 
knows all about him and doesn’t care for him at 
all. I advised Rosamund not to go, but she’s 
young and likes a good time, and of course a 
man with money and a car is alluring. I suppose 
you can’t blame her. I think, after all, she likes 
you best, but she is—what’s the expression you 


TANGLED THREADS 


181 


boys are always using—‘just looking them over.’ 
And I suppose that’s her privilege.” 

“It surely is,” Randall agreed. “Only—well, 
it s my misfortune. I wish I didn’t care so much; 
it takes all the joy out of living. Have you seen 
that movie, ‘Love Is an Awful Thing’? Well, 
that’s no joke; it’s the truth.” 

“I believe you,” she answered with a concen¬ 
trated bitterness that was lost upon him. “And 
I understand your cousin is a victim also. They 
tell me he has a terrible crush on Rosamund’s 
sister—that they are seen everywhere together.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” he assented. “They were 
at the Stadium Saturday, and he certainly ap¬ 
peared devoted enough. By the way, Dorothy, 
tell me this. I’m not given to gossip, but I have 
a reason for asking. Do you know Stella Leslie 
well? Do you consider that she is what you 
would call a ‘nice girl’?” 

Dorothy hesitated before replying, “I don’t 
really know Stella at all. She had left home 
before I came to stay with the Leslies. I think 
she s all right, but it is just a little mysterious. 
She never comes home; Mrs. Leslie and Rosa¬ 
mund never go to see her. There’s some under¬ 
standing, I believe, where she is, that visitors 
aren’t encouraged. But I don’t believe there’s 
anything wrong. Certainly, she is a very beau¬ 
tiful girl, and very clever, too. Rosamund is 
always telling me how popular Stella was in 
school; she was quite an actress, I believe, for a 
schoolgirl. Rosamund is devoted to her; thinks 


182 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


there’s no one like her. Which makes it seem 
unfortunate that Stella stays away as she does. 

“I see,” Randall answered. “Well, it is a bit 
mysterious. But then,” he added, “so is life in 
general. I’m in that state of mind tonight that 
I wish I’d never been born.” }> 

Dorothy smiled faintly. “There are tjvo of us, 
she answered. “You’d better stay to supper and 
we’ll cheer each other up.” 

“I’d like to,” he rejoined, “but I’ve got a lot 
to do. Studying and some other things. Good 
night, Dorothy; I’ll tell Dick to drop around.” 

Two hours later he had crossed the Yard and 
mounted the stairs to his cousin s room. He 
found Endicott seated at his desk, which was 
covered with a mountain of textbooks, note¬ 
books and miscellaneous papers of every descrip¬ 
tion. “Hullo, Walter,” the divinity student hailed 
him, “come in, but don’t park. I’ve got three 
examinations next week.” 

The frankness of this greeting did not tend to 
place Randall more at his ease. He took a seat 
and was saved the usual preliminary diplomacies 
regarding the weather by Endicott’s direct, in¬ 
cisive, and in fact almost peremptory, “Well, 
what’s on your mind?” 

“I’ll tell you, Frank,” Randall began. “It’s 
just like this: As a usual thing, I make a practice 
of minding my own business, and letting the 
other fellow mind his. I’m not a butter-in; fact 
is, I have a horror of meddling with other peo- 


TANGLED THREADS 


183 


pie’s affairs, and I hate most confoundedly to 
have them meddle with mine.” 

“I agree with you,” cried Endicott. “I agree 
with you most heartily. The man who meddles 
in my affairs is taking a chance of getting his face 
punched. But you didn’t come over here to lay 
down general philosophical maxims regarding 
human conduct. Why not get down to facts?” 

Randall, listening to these words and regard¬ 
ing his cousin’s huge frame and determined coun¬ 
tenance, relished his errand less than ever. How¬ 
ever, this was not the time to falter, and so he 
answered, “All right, then, I will. I believe there 
are exceptions to all rules, including the one I’ve 
just spoken of. And I want to tell you something 
about an acquaintance of yours that I think you 
ought to know.” 

Endicott frowned. “Look here, Walter,” he 
rejoined abruptly, “I’ll be frank with you. I 
don’t care for this line of talk at all.” 

“I know you don’t,” Randall assented, “but if 
you knew something of this kind about an ac¬ 
quaintance of mine, and thought I ought to know 
about it, I should be perfectly willing to listen 
to you.” 

“Theoretically you would,” retorted Endicott, 
“but as a practical matter you’d probably get 
mad right away. That’s the way folks are built. 
However, we’re wasting time. You’ve come over 
here with some choice bit of gossip, and I sup¬ 
pose you won’t be satisfied till you’ve told it to 
me. So fire away!” 


184 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


Randall rose indignantly. “You wholly mis¬ 
understand,” he replied. “It isn’t gossip, ior one 
thing, and this visit is no pleasure to me. I came 
here solely for your good, but if you don’t want 
to listen, you certainly don’t have to.” And turn¬ 
ing on his heel, he had started for the door when 
Endicott called out curtly, “Come back, Walter; 
don’t be a fool. Can’t you take a joke? Let’s 
have it and be done with it. WRat s it all 
about, anyway?” 

After a moment’s hesitation Randall re-seated 
himself. “I saw you at the Meet last week,” he 
said abruptly, “with Miss Stella Leslie.” 

“That’s true,” Endicott responded promptly. 
“What of it?” 

“Nothing,” returned Randall, “only I know 
you don’t go in much for the ladies as a rule, 
and I figured that if you were inviting a girl 
to the Stadium you must be taking quite an in¬ 
terest in her.” 

“That’s possible,” Endicott rejoined briefly and 
with sarcasm. “Again, what of it?” 

Randall felt that the crisis had been reached. 
Endicott, as usual, was contriving to be unneces¬ 
sarily combative and irritatingly superior in his 1 
manner. However, it was too late to withdraw. 
“I think there are some things about the girl 
you ought to know—” he began, but got no 
further, for Endicott leaped to his feet in a 
passion, his face flushed an angry crimson. 

“What do you mean?” he cried. “How dare 
you refer to Miss Leslie in that way? I resent 


TANGLED THREADS 


185 


your mode of expression. I’ll have you know 
that Miss Leslie has been of the very greatest 
assistance to me in many ways. She has taken 
a class in my Sunday School, which is more than 
you would do and more than Dick Meredith 
would do. She has aided me in my mission 
work. She is one of the most beautiful char¬ 
acters I have ever met. And I resent—I deeply 
resent—any insinuation of this sort. And I re¬ 
sent your confounded interference—” 

Randall, perceiving the utter folly of further 
discussion, in his turn sprang to his feet, and not 
without a feeling of just indignation, he raised a 
protesting hand. “All right! All right!” he 
cried. “Resent away! Resent anything you damn 
please. It doesn’t bother me, and you can bet 
it will be some time before I come here again.” 
And he stalked from the room, slamming the 
door behind him with an eloquent bang. 






















. 






















c 








I * 







































Part III 

And Ever Shall Be 




XII 


The Sure Thing 

Young Bob Langdon, brisk, dynamic, swept 
into the offices of Loring & Stevenson like a 
cyclone, the clear color of his cheeks bearing 
witness to the tonic qualities of the November 
nor’wester that drove riotously through the city 
streets. “Morning, folks,” he cried inclusively. 
“Good football weather, what?” And without 
waiting for a reply he hurried on toward his 
office, seated himself at his desk and made ready 
for an attack upon the morning mail. Even as he 
was about to begin the onslaught, he perceived 
a slip of paper upon which was pencilled in Mere¬ 
dith’s precise, deliberate hand, “Please see me at 
once. A. M.” Immediately, therefore, hat still 
on head, morning paper still rolled in hand, he 
turned and swung swiftly down the corridor, and 
finding the door open, made his way into Mere¬ 
dith’s room. 

Its occupant, back toward him, was bending 
over his work, so intent upon what he was doing 
that he w r as evidently unaware of his visitor’s 
entrance. Langdon, still hardly more than an 
overgrown boy and quite unable to resist the pro¬ 
pensity for practical jokes which had all his life 
obsessed him, grinned joyfully to himself. Ap- 
189 


190 DAUGHTERS OF EVE 

proaching Meredith’s desk on tiptoe, he raised 
the folded paper which he still held clenched in 
his right hand, and brought it down with a vig¬ 
orous whack on top of the secretary’s head. The 
burst of ingenuous laughter at his own wit froze 
on his lips as Meredith, with a spasmodic jerk of 
his body, wheeled suddenly around, his expression 
of startled amazement instantly giving place to 
one of downright anger. 

“For God’s sake, Langdon,” he cried wrathfully, 
“aren’t you ever going to grow up? You want 
to cut it out. That sort of thing may go in the 
movies, but in a respectable business office it’s 
most damnably out of place.” 

Langdon, himself startled by this outburst 
from the usually self-effacing secretary, made 
haste to offer the most profuse apologies. 

“All right; all right,” Meredith responded more 
quietly, the color beginning to return to his 
cheeks, “I suppose you didn’t mean any harm, 
but let me tell you this: you young fellows 
don’t realize what it means when a man is getting 
on toward fifty, with a bad liver and jumping 
nerves. I can’t stand what I once could; not 
by a long shot. Now sit down; I have a mes¬ 
sage for you from Dick. I never see him while 
this football business is going on, but he writes 
me a letter once a week.” 

Langdon complied, and the secretary, with fin¬ 
gers which still trembled, began searching hur¬ 
riedly through the heap of papers on his desk. 
Clearly, Langdon reflected, Meredith’s descrip- 


THE SURE THING 


191 


tion of himself had not been overdrawn. His face 
was blotched and sallow, his cheeks sunken, and 
he had the unmistakable air of the man who is 
working at high tension, and who has long ago 
lost the secret of relaxation and ease. Langdon 
could not help noting that as far as attire went, 
the secretary seemed to be making abortive, and 
somewhat distressing, efforts to retain at least 
the appearance of youth and health. The pattern 
of his suit was a pronounced “checker board” of 
black and white, and an emerald pin adorned his 
scarlet tie, producing a general effect unpleasant¬ 
ly incongruous. “The old boy is certainly slip¬ 
ping,” was Langdon’s unspoken thought. 

In the meantime, Meredith continued his un¬ 
successful search. “Now where the devil—” he 
muttered, with an irritation wholly dispropor¬ 
tionate to the occasion, “I don’t see where I put 
that; I had it here a moment ago.” But an in¬ 
stant later, with a sigh of relief, he produced the 
letter from his pocket. 

“There, that’s better,” he cried, as he opened 
it. “Now where’s the part that interests you? 
Here it is. Now listen, Langdon; this is what 
he says: ‘Of course you will want to know the 
football news, which, as usual, you will please 
regard as largely confidential. Here is the hon¬ 
est truth: I’ve played on three Harvard teams, 
as you know, all pretty good ones, but this year’s 
is the best of the three. You have doubtless 
read many ‘knocks’ in the papers because we 
only beat Southeastern 17 to 0, but let me tell 


192 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


you that we didn’t show a thing more than we 
were obliged to. It was just a good stiff work¬ 
out, and nothing more. In the big games we 
shall be a wholly different team. Doubtless, also, 
you are reading a lot about Princeton’s wonderful 
eleven; but that is just the usual newspaper 
stuff. They have a good average team; we know 
that from our scouting; but our own team is far 
and away above the average. As for Yale, we 
know that the Elis will die game, as they always 
do. I don’t believe there ever was a Yale team 
that didn’t do its damndest. And it’s not like 
the old days, either, before their system got 
working; their system is as good today, if not 
better, than ours. Their one trouble this year is 
lack of material; it’s not within a mile of that of 
the last two years. So I feel no doubt about 
either game, and as I know Bob Langdon always 
likes to have something down on a good thing, 
you are at liberty to tell him that I consider a 
bet on Harvard, at about ten to eight or ten to 
seven, the next thing to betting on an absolute 
certainty. Yours as ever, Dick’.” 

Langdon’s eyes sparkled. “Great!” he ejacu¬ 
lated. “That’s the real stuff, Mr. Meredith, and 
I’m ever so grateful to you for letting me in on it. 
Thank Dick for me when you write him.” He 
rose to his feet as he spoke; then hesitated for 
an instant before he added, “It’s none of my 
business, Mr. Meredith, but why don’t you put 
something on the game yourself? It seems a 
shame to see you passing along information like 


THE SURE THING 


193 


this without profiting by it. Why not make a 
little easy coin?” 

Meredith sat silent, with averted eyes. “I 
don’t know,” he replied slowly at last. “God 
knows I’d like to make some money, easy or 
otherwise. And I don’t know that I have any 
real scruples against betting. Only—I never have 
gambled. I was brought up in an old-fashioned, 
hymn-singing atmosphere, with Bible readings 
and family prayers. And when a man gets to 
be my age, he finds it harder and harder to 
branch out into new fields; habit has him by the 
heels. Still—” he added with a kind of helpless 
irresolution, “I don’t know—” 

“Oh, it’s your own business, of course,” Lang- 
don answered. “I dare say you’re sensible to 
let gambling alone. Only it surely does add to 
the gaiety of life. Well, I’ll lose no time. I’ll 
take up a little collection from Pearson and one 
or two others, and put it up with ‘Sport’ Calla¬ 
han tonight.” 

Meredith sat surveying with envy the younger 
man’s tall, erect figure, the bright color in his 
cheeks, the health and energy betrayed in every 
movement. “I wish you luck,” he answered; 
then added, as if in spite of himself, “By the way, 
who is this Callahan you speak of?” 

“‘Sport’ Callahan?” Langdon repeated. “Oh, 
he’s a regular Boston institution—one of the big¬ 
gest gamblers in the East. A bit of a tough, you 
know, but perfectly straight. When you put your 
money up with him, it’s as safe as if you had put 


194 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


it in a savings bank. And the man s a character, 
too; he has a marvelous head for figures, and 
he’s always ready to quote you a price on any 
sporting event in the world—horse race, prize 
fight, ball game—anything at all.” 

Meredith, as he listened, surveyed in one all- 
inclusive glance his drab past, his anxious present 
and his uncertain and discouraging future. Then 
he sighed. “I am afraid, Langdon,” he observed 
somewhat pathetically, “that I lead a most un¬ 
eventful life. At times, I have a positive craving 
for excitement. I should judge that this man you 
speak of—this Callahan—must have plenty of it.” 

Langdon laughed outright. “You know the 
old wheeze about sporting life,” he answered. 
“ ‘It may be checkered, but it’s never dull.’ I sup¬ 
pose that’s one of the truest things that ever was 
said. Look here, Mr. Meredith,” he continued, 
struck with sudden inspiration, “I’ll tell you 
what we’ll do. You take dinner with me tonight, 
and afterwards we’ll drop around to Ryan’s Hotel 
where Callahan hangs out, and you can get a 
look at the whole gang of sports who operate 
here in Boston. It will do you good. I believe 
you’re right about yourself; you’re not getting 
enough variety. And,” he added ingenuously, “I 
should like to do something to make amends for 
cracking you over the bean. I can see now what 
a silly trick it was. What do you say? Will 
you go?” 

Meredith reflected. If he refused he could see, 
in imagination, the routine of his evening out- 


THE SURE THING 


195 


spread before him. First of all, he would go 
home, hoping on the way, though without the 
slightest justification for such hopes, that he 
would find Mary’s attitude toward him altered, 
by some miracle of love, to that of former days. 
Then would come the moment of actual arrival, 
when his first sight of his wife would effectually 
shatter these dreams and reduce him to his usual 
state of miserable disquietude. There would fol¬ 
low dinner, with the customary labored and half¬ 
hearted trivialities—the weather, the food, the 
headlines in the evening paper. And after din¬ 
ner his wife would either dress and go out or 
would at once retire to the privacy of her room, 
leaving him to smoke and read in solitude. It 
was not an enlivening prospect, and the thought 
of it aroused in his tortured soul a wraith of 
revolt—a faint shadow of that masculine self- 
assertion which with him had almost ceased to 
exist. So that when he spoke it was, uncon¬ 
sciously, in the language of many years ago, 
in those happy undergraduate days before mar¬ 
riage had fettered and broken him. “Why, you 
bet I’ll go you, Langdon,” he said. 

“That’s bully,” cried the younger man heartily. 
“And look here, Mr. Meredith,” he added per¬ 
suasively, “it’s none of my damn business, but 
why don’t you bring along a fifty and plank it 
down on the Princeton game? You’ve no idea 
how much more exciting it makes it to have a 
bet on. Really, you’d better give it a try.” 

But Meredith’s newly-acquired independence 


196 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


had its limits. “Why, I don’t know,” he tem¬ 
porized. “Possibly I will. I’ll think it over dur¬ 
ing the day. Anyway, I’ll be waiting for you 
about six tonight.” 

‘Til be there with the bells on,” was Lang- 
don’s characteristic rejoinder, and he departed as 
blithely as he had come. Meredith listened en¬ 
viously to the brisk receding footsteps; then 
slowly rose and walked over to the mirror which 
hung upon the wall. Long and relentlessly he 
stared at the seamed and shrunken face that 
unsmilingly gazed back at him. He was con¬ 
scious that his heart was beating at more than 
its normal rate of speed; that his head felt tired 
and heavy; that he experienced all the sensations 
of a man thoroughly out of health and out of 
sorts. The familiar walls of the office seemed 
suddenly to have taken on the aspect of a prison, 
caging and confining him. A query flashed, un¬ 
bidden, through his brain: “If I should drop dead 
this minute, wouldn’t that be the best thing?” 
With an effort, he pulled himself together and 
turned back toward his desk. “This can’t go on,” 
he muttered, half aloud. “Putting an end to 
myself—that’s all I can think about. I’ve got 
to do something, or I’ll wind up in an asylum, as 
sure as fate.” He re-seated himself, and turned 
back to his work, conscious that another thought 
was fighting tenaciously for recognition in his 
mind, and thrusting it from him with all his 
strength. “Never,” he said firmly to himself. 
“Better die than do that.” And with a sense of 


THE SURE THING 


197 


victory he swung back again into the day’s 
routine. 

It was shortly after eight that evening when 
they pushed their way through the revolving 
doorway of Ryan’s Hotel. Meredith was con¬ 
scious of considerable bustle and movement, and 
of a prevailing second-rate elegance of plush, 
palms and marble, set off by countless lights, 
veiled and dimmed by a wavering cloud of gray- 
blue tobacco smoke. In the distance he per¬ 
ceived, hazily, a green expanse of billiard and 
pool tables, over which the ivory balls slid 
smoothly to and fro, while from the alleys on 
the floor below them came faintly to their ears 
the detonations of the rolling balls and the crash 
of falling pins. 

Langdon looked about him uncertainly, pene¬ 
trating with difficulty the heavy atmosphere and 
shading his eyes with his hand. “Ah, there he 
is,” he cried presently. “Over by the desk. Come 
along.” 

A moment later Meredith, a trifle confused by 
the novelty of his surroundings, found himself 
shaking hands with the famous gambler. Calla¬ 
han, he noted, was tall and smooth-faced, a big, 
burly Irishman, with the easy manners and the 
ready smile of a ward politician. Chiefly, it was 
the man’s eyes which attracted him,—keen, alert, 
appraising, easily making credible the stories of 
his marvelous aptitude for figures and odds. 

“Dick Meredith’s brother!” he exclaimed 
heartily, as Langdon performed the introduction. 


198 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


“Well, let me tell you, Mr. Meredith, that that 
boy is certainly a wonder. I follow the game 
pretty closely—it’s my business to—and I 11 tell 
the world that you’ve got to go back as far as 
Charley Brickley and Eddie Mahan before you’ll 
find a man that’s got anything on Dick Meredith. 
Will you smoke? No? Well, just a moment, 
then. Excuse me, boys. Excuse me, Mr. Lang- 
don.” And before Meredith realized what was 
taking place, Callahan had led him to one side 
behind the shelter of one of the screening palms. 

“I’d like to ask you one question,” the gambler 
observed confidentially. “I don’t mind telling 
you that the football situation this year, from a 
betting standpoint, is quite out of the ordinary. 
I can’t recall when there has been such a flood 
of money wagered on the big games. Yale is 
confident; Harvard is certain; Princeton is posi¬ 
tive. Ten to nine; eight to ten; the odds are 
no wider than that. Now you can do me a favor, 
and doubtless some day I can do you one in 
return. I won’t abuse your confidence, but I’d 
like to ask you this. Right on the quiet, what 
does your brother really tell you about the pros¬ 
pects? Does he think Harvard is good enough 
to win?” 

Meredith, flattered in spite of himself at being 
thus consulted by so eminent an authority, saw 
no harm in answering truthfully, “Why, he cer¬ 
tainly does think so. I had a letter from him 
only this morning, saying that he figured on 
Harvard’s winning both games. And he’s not 


THE SURE THING 


199 


given to being overconfident, either; Eve never 
heard him—” 

But at this point they were interrupted by the 
appearance behind the palm of a stout, flashily 
dressed, brisk little Jew, who bustled up to 
them without ceremony. “Say, Joe,” he hailed 
familiarly, “what’s the price on the Princeton 
game? Any change in the odds?” 

Callahan gazed at him from beneath narrowed 
eyelids. “I’ll see you in a minute, Louis,” he 
answered coolly. “Can’t you see when a gentle¬ 
man’s busy?” 

The rebuke bounded like india rubber from 
the epidermis of the Jew. “Ah, lay off, Joe,” he 
retorted. “You ain’t too busy to see me. I got 
five thousand dollars Princeton money; the guy 
wants eight to ten. If you ain’t interested, I’ll 
see Hymie Goldberg, but I thought I’d give you 
first chance.” 

Callahan’s manner changed instantly. “All 
right, all right,” he responded, and excusing him¬ 
self to Meredith, he conferred briefly with his 
fellow bookmaker and then returned, jotting 
down the wager in his notebook. “That’s the 
way it’s going,” he explained. “Big bets, lots of 
them. I believe a man could place a quarter of 
a million on either of the games. Are you doing 
anything yourself, Mr. Meredith?” 

Meredith shook his head. “No, I’m not a bet¬ 
ting man,” he answered. “But perhaps,” he 
added hesitatingly, and almost as if against his 
will, “I may make a bet on Harvard later on.” 


200 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


“I should think you would,” the gambler an¬ 
swered, “and a good sized one, too. You don’t 
realize it, because you’re not used to the game, 
but you’re in a wonderful way to make some 
money; you come pretty close to being right on 
the inside. Another year and your brother grad¬ 
uates, and you won’t be able to get this first¬ 
hand stuff. You’ve heard about the hay and 
the sunshine; well, I’d make a little of that hay 
now. If you do decide to do anything, come to 
me; I’ll cut out the commissions and get you the 
best odds going. Now I must get back to busi¬ 
ness. Thank you, Mr. Meredith; I hope I’ll see 
you later.” 

Meredith rejoined Langdon. “Well,” laughed 
the latter, with a gesture at the crowded room, 
“what do you think of it? Looks like the stock 
exchange on a busy day. I got on my little 
three hundred, all right, at twenty to seventeen. 
Now what shall we do? Shoot a game of pool? 
No? Well, suit yourself. Have you had enough?” 

“It’s the smoke,” explained Meredith, “and 
the noise. It’s all very interesting, but a little 
goes a long way. I’m much obliged for a pleas¬ 
ant evening, Langdon, but I think I’ll be going 
along.” 

The half hour’s homeward walk passed quickly, 
so filled was his mind with the events of the day. 
Above all, there recurred the insistent advice of 
Langdon and Callahan to get something down on 
the games, and it was of this counsel that he 
he was thinking as his key turned in the lock. 


THE SURE THING 


201 


He entered the hallway to find his wife standing 
in front of the long mirror, drawing on her white 
gloves. She wore a filmy, shimmering ball dress 
of rose and silver which permitted a lavish dis¬ 
play of bust and shoulders, and two men looked 
forth upon her from Meredith’s eyes—one, the 
husband jealous of his wife; the other, the sensu¬ 
alist gazing covetously upon a beautiful woman. 
But it was the husband’s voice that asked coldly, 
“So you’re going out again?” 

She threw him an indifferent glance. “It does 
look like it,” she admitted flippantly, “or did you 
imagine I had dressed especially for you?” 

Meredith winced, but while the husband would 
have retorted angrily it was the sensualist who 
checked him and stepped forward, saying thickly, 
“Well, you look very pretty; let’s have a kiss.” 

She drew back in disgust. “Keep away from 
me!” she cried. “Can’t you see I’m going out? 
And you simply reek of tobacco.” 

He paused, frowning, and still regarding her 
with longing. “Very well,” he said sullenly. “I’ll 
wait up for you.” 

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” she retorted 
sharply. “I shan’t be home until late, and I’ll 
be so tired that I shall go straight to bed.” 

His face darkened. “Look here,” he demanded 
sternly, “do you realize what you’re saying? 
You’re refusing me what every husband has a 
right to. You’re going back on the promise that’s 
implied in every marriage.” 

She regarded him steadily, her lips curled, her 


202 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


tone contemptuous. “I realize,” she said evenly, 
“that you are a fool. Once and for all, can’t you 
appreciate that romance is only for youth? You’ve 
had your good times; you’ve got something to 
look back on, anyway. But there’s no greater 
nuisance in the world than a loving husband 
when once he’s reached middle age. Absolutely, 
he’s a pest. Think it over, and good night.” 

She started for the door, but he intercepted 
her, his face livid with wrath. “You’re all 
wrong. You don’t understand these things. A 
man’s a man, with a man’s appetites, as long as 
he lives. You’ve no right to talk as you do; to 
act as you do.” 

She sighed wearily. “Oh, we thrashed this all 
out nine months ago,” she answered. “I gave 
you my terms then. You haven’t come across. 
I’ve seen no money; you’ve given me no luxuries. 
My offer still holds. You make good and I’ll 
make good. Now I’m late; don’t keep me, please.” 

The door closed after her. Meredith stood 
irresolute, savagely angry. For the second time 
that day he saw his mirthless face stare back at 
him from a mirror, and for the second time felt 
that he had reached a crisis in his life. “I can’t 
stand this,” he muttered. “I’ll go and see George 
Warrener. There’s no better lawyer in town, 
and I’ve no better friend. He’ll tell me where 
I stand.” 

Twenty minutes later, he stood on the door¬ 
steps of George Warrener’s dwelling, trying hard 
to steady his voice as he asked the butler if his 


THE SURE THING 


203 


employer were at home. To his relief, the man’s 
answer was in the affirmative, and a few mo¬ 
ments afterward he was ushered into the library. 
Warrener, a rosy, dapper little man in his early 
sixties, rose from a desk littered with books and 
papers, and came forward with a cheery smile 
and a cordial word of greeting. 

For Meredith, nearly at the end of his tether, 
the warmth of the welcome was almost too much, 
and it was only by an effort that he was able to 
retain his self-control as he sank into an easy- 
chair in front of the fire. Yet even in the midst 
of his troubles, his first thought was not for 
himself, and sudden compunction seized him for 
thus interrupting his host. “George, my dear 
fellow,” he said with contrition and in a voice 
which in spite of him broke and trembled, “I 
wanted your advice, but I should have waited 
until morning. I’ve broken in upon your work.” 

Warrener laughed, though at the same time 
noting with some uneasiness the highly wrought 
condition of his friend. “My dear Arthur,” he 
rejoined, “no work goes on in this room; nothing 
but play. I leave my work behind me at the 
office. This room is sacred to the random studies 
of an amateur critic. I take myself very seri¬ 
ously, of course, but no one else does. Don’t 
talk of interruptions, for I’m wholly at your 
service. You spoke of needing advice. What is 
troubling you?” 

“George,” Meredith answered, “you’re the best 
divorce lawyer in the county. I’m as ignorant 


204 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


of law as a babe unborn. I want to put a 
hypothetical case.” 

Warrener nodded, a different expression com¬ 
ing into his eyes as the amateur student gave 
way to the professional man. “Exactly,” he re¬ 
sponded. “Proceed.” 

Meredith hesitated. “Well, then,” he said at 
length, “suppose, after a certain term of married 
life, a woman suddenly becomes weary of sexual 
relations with her husband, and calmly tells him 
that all that sort of thing .is at an end. What 
can he do about it? Has he a legal remedy?” 

“No,” the lawyer answered promptly, “at least, 
not in this Commonwealth. That is something 
that must be somehow adjusted between the 
parties themselves. They have to work out 
their own salvation. As a matter of fact, I can 
tell you, from experience in many different cases, 
what is almost sure to happen. The man has 
formed a habit—a perfectly natural and proper 
habit—and when he finds that he can’t gratify 
it at home, he frets and fumes for a while, and 
finally ends up by going elsewhere.” 

There was silence. Then, “Do you blame 
him?” Meredith ‘asked. 

“Not in the least,” Warrener answered. “He’s 
well within his rights. Women such as you 
describe have much to answer for. They think 
they are chaste when in reality they are simply 
lacking in sex instinct. To my mind, they are 
more dangerous than if they possessed an excess 
of passion. From what I have seen of them, they 


THE SURE THING 


205 


generally succeed in raising hell with a man, 
physically and morally as well.” 

Meredith sighed. “I believe you,” he rejoined 
bitterly. “But you say there’s no remedy?” 

“No, not legally,” Warrener answered. “I 
should say, off-hand, that if things had come to 
such a pass as you describe, a separation would 
be the wisest course.” 

Meredith pondered. “But suppose,” he queried 
at length, “that the man is genuinely fond of his 
wife. Suppose it’s not merely a question of 
physical appetite; that he can’t find a substitute 
among other women, because his wife is the 
only woman in the world whom he really loves.” 

Warrener chuckled. “I’m a bachelor, thank 
heaven,” he responded, “and I look at these mat¬ 
ters from a bachelor’s standpoint, but when you 
talk of a man caring for one woman only, I can 
merely answer you in the words of the old, 
moth-eaten story, ‘There ain’t no such animile.’ 
No, no, my boy, women are women and men are 
men; that’s all there is to it. Why, I can cite 
you an authority this very moment. As you 
came into the room, I laid down the poems of 
Thomas Carew. Do you know them?” 

“No,” Meredith answered, “but I recall the 
name, of course. Contemporary with Herrick 
and Suckling, wasn’t he?” 

“That’s the man,” Warrener answered. He 
rose, walked over to the table and picked up the 
book. “You know,” he continued briskly, “it’s 
the fashion in this smug and hypocritical age, to 


206 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


speak with horror of the licentiousness of these 
old seventeenth century boys. I can’t see it at 
all. They simply thought and wrote what we 
think and don’t write, for fear of the censor. 
Now just listen to Carew’s Second Rapture. If 
it isn’t the frankest confession of faith of a jolly 
old sensualist that was ever penned, then I’m 
no judge.” 

He paused a moment, adjusted his glasses, 
cleared his throat, and then read with gusto: 


“ ‘No, worlding, no, ’tis not thy gold, 
Which thou dost use but to behold. 

Nor fortune, honour, nor long life, 
Children, or friends, nor a good wife, 
That makes thee happy: these things be 
But shadows of felicity. 

Give me a wench about thirteen, 
Already voted queen 

Of lust and lovers; whose soft hair 
Fann’d with the breath of gentle air, 
O’er-spreads her shoulders like a tent, 
And is her veil and ornament; 

Whose tender touch will make the blood 
Wild in the aged and the good; 

Whose kisses, fasten’d to the mouth 
Of three-score years and longer slouth, 
Renew the age; and whose bright eye 
Obscures those lesser lights of sky; 
Whose snowy breasts (if we may call 
That snow, that never melts at all,) 
Makes Jove invent a new disguise, 

In spite of Juno’s jealousies; 

Whose every part doth re-invite 
The old decayed appetite; 

And in whose sweet embraces I 


THE SURE THING 


207 


May melt myself to lust, and die. 

This is true bliss, and I confess 
There is no other happiness. ,, 

He laid down the book and resumed his seat, 
his eyes bright with mirth, and possibly also with 
reawakened memories. “Well, what do you say 
to that?” he queried. 

Meredith slowly shook his head. “He’s frank 
enough,” he rejoined, “and he puts his side of the 
case most plausibly. But I fear those old fel¬ 
lows saw only the fleshly side of love. I still 
maintain there is something more spiritual about 
it—something more lasting—” He did not com¬ 
plete the sentence, but rose unsteadily to his 
feet. “Thank you very much, George; you’ve 
told me just what I wanted to know. It’s all a 
hypothetical case, you understand; nothing per¬ 
sonal. Well, I must be going. No, don’t come 
down, please; I know the way.” 

The words came haltingly and with effort; it 
was plain to Warrener that his friend was close 
to the breaking point, and with ready tact he 
allowed him to depart alone, while he resumed 
his seat at his desk. “Poor fellow,” he muttered. 
“They’re all alike. It always is a hypothetical 
case. Like the fabled ostrich, they bury their 
heads in the sand.” 

Meredith, headed toward home, was making 
his solitary way across the long wooden bridge 
that spanned the river. Midway in his journey 
he slackened his pace, stopped short, and gazing 


208 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


down at the water far below him, began to bal¬ 
ance in his mind the conflicting claims of life 
and death. The mere act of dying—that would 
be simplicity itself; a headlong drop through space, 
plunging him beneath the surface; then the 
resolute breathing of water in place of air until 
the clogged lungs choked and filled. That would 
be all. But afterwards? What would he have 
gained? Rest; peace; but—oblivion. He shud¬ 
dered and gripped more tightly the rail before 
him. After all, it was no small thing to leave 
a world of life and sunshine for the gloom and 
silence of the grave. Yet the next instant a 
thought flashed from infinity across his brain— 
a random phrase from a lecture, heard months 
ago, upon the art of warfare. “Before beginning 
an engagement,” the grizzled old fighter had said, 
“make sure that you establish a means of re¬ 
treat.” “A means of retreat!” The river was 
precisely that. And with such a retreat open to 
him a man could go the limit—could fight sav¬ 
agely to the very last ditch. And at once, clam¬ 
orously, insistently, came the further thought that 
he had fought against all day long, yet now 
fought no longer, but bade it welcome. The 
thought was this: safe in the guarded vaults, 
wholly subject to his will and to his alone, lay 
the trust securities in a crisp heap,—high class, 
gilt-edged, literally as good as gold. Gold! The 
word thrilled him. Gold! The greatest thing 
in the world save one, and that one other it 
could buy. All the chances were in his favor. 


THE SURE THING 


209 


Dick considered the games already won; Lang- 
don felt sure enough not only to risk his money 
but to give odds as well; Callahan had advised 
him to get a bet down on Harvard. And if he 
won, there was his start. All his troubles would 
be ended. His winnings on the Princeton game 
he could wager against Yale. Yale once beaten, 
he would be free to plunge as he pleased; the 
market, the race track, the diamond; there would 
be no lack of opportunity— With a sudden 
gasp he came to himself, casting a quick glance 
upward where the stars gleamed in the heavens, 
gold and glad. The omen cheered him. 

He made his way onward with rapid strides, 
and when the bridge was crossed he turned, not 
toward home, but in the direction of Ryan’s 
Hotel. His resolution once taken, one thought 
only obsessed him,—a fear that something might 
happen to prevent his making the wager. As 
he neared the hotel and for the second time that 
evening pushed through the revolving door, he 
felt his heart pounding against his ribs. Across 
the smoke-filled room he saw Callahan’s burly 
form lounging against the hotel desk. Straight 
across the room he made his way, his jaw set, 
a glow of determination on his face. “How are 
the odds on the Princeton game?” he asked. 
“Still the same?” 

Callahan nodded. “Ten to nine, Harvard,” he 
answered readily, “but look here, Mr. Meredith, 
just a moment—” 

Again he led Meredith out of earshot of the 


210 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


crowd. “There’s a lot of Princeton money show¬ 
ing up,” he confided. “They’re certainly feeling 
pretty cocky. There’s a rumor that their injured 
star, Brandon, may get into the game after all. 
So if you’re going to lay a bet—especially if 
you’re going to lay a big bet—don’t get it down 
tonight. By tomorrow I’ll get you even money.” 

Meredith lost no time in preliminaries. “Do 
you call ten thousand dollars a big bet?” he 
queried. 

Callahan grinned. “I sure do,” he responded. 
“I call it a damn big bet, but I can get it on 
for you. Or twenty, either.” 

“All right,” Meredith answered with a decision 
that surprised himself. “I’ll bet ten thousand 
dollars on Harvard to beat Princeton, and I’ll 
have the money here tomorrow night. Is that 
a go?” 

“You’re on,” the gambler rejoined briefly. 
“That’s a mighty good bet, Mr. Meredith,” he 
added. “You ought to cop, sure.” 

“I hope so,” Meredith answered somewhat 
grimly. “See you tomorrow, then.” And once 
more he went forth into the night, the cold, crisp 
air, as he emerged, striking him in the face like 
a blow, as he bent his steps toward home. His 
task completed, all nervousness had left him; he 
felt curiously at ease. “Make or break,” he mut¬ 
tered, and as he uttered the words the thought 
of the river loomed before him, with the stars 
shining far overhead and the dark water rippling 
below. 


XIII 


The Way of the Reformer Is Hard 

The King’s Chapel clock was striking two 
when Ed Hamlin, returning from his luncheon, 
entered the elevator and sped upward to his 
office on the topmost floor of the tallest build¬ 
ing on Tremont Street. Removing his hat and 
coat and glancing over the messages on his desk, 
he walked leisurely over to the window and gazed 
meditatively at the scene before him. 

Between him and the harbor stretched an irreg¬ 
ular mass of roofs, some far below, others almost 
level with his eye, the skyline barred with 
steeples, spires, and the tall masts of derricks 
bringing still other edifices into being. Here and 
there columns of white smoke, issuing from the 
mouths of huge chimneys, rose straight upward 
into the still autumnal air. To his left the Cus¬ 
tom House tower, its pinnacle high in the clouds, 
loomed magnificently against a pale blue sky; 
beyond, to the northeast, the waters of the har¬ 
bor, dotted with shipping, stretched away to the 
horizon. 

Surely, Hamlin reflected, a pleasant, sunshiny, 
comfortable world, filled with good things to eat 
and, under certain difficulties, good things to 
drink. A world of clubs and dance halls, of auc- 
211 


212 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


tion and mah jong, of stock markets, ball fields 
and race tracks, and perhaps best of all, of pretty 
women, as shrewd and daring traders at their 
game as he was in the.game of cotton, stocks and 
grain. Yes, a pleasant, pulsing, sensuous world. 

The telephone on his desk tinkled, and he 
proceeded without haste to answer it, his abrupt, 
metallic business tone changing, after the first 
salutation, to mellow cheerfulness: “Hello! Oh, 
hello, Mabel, this is nice of you. That’s good. 
Your bag? Yes, found it in the car this morn¬ 
ing. You girls are always mislaying things. Can 
I send it up right away? Yes, I think so. I’d 
come myself, but the cotton market has broken 
wide open. I told you it would. I’m sitting 
pretty, about five thousand ahead of the game. 
What shall I buy you? Nothing? You don’t 
want any more presents? The devil you don’t!” 
There followed a pause; then, his voice suddenly 
cold and hard, “Look here, my dear, it seems to 
me you’ve changed a lot lately. I like girls to 
be warm, and not cold; I don’t want anything 
to do with good little girls at all. You want to 
have a talk with me when you get back from 
Maine? Sure. You’ll feel better by then. Well, 
I’ll send the bag up. Good-by.” 

He stood for a moment in thoughtful silence. 
Then he wrapped up the bag and addressed it, 
and rang for the ebony office boy. But when 
the door opened it was not the agile William 
but Rosamund Leslie who appeared on the 
threshold. “Hello,” he observed, “you’ve got 


WAY OF REFORMER IS HARD 213 


your signals mixed. I rang for the fleet-footed 
messenger, not for you.” 

“William has gone home, Mr. Hamlin,” she 
answered. “His mother is very ill, he says; he 
had word while you were out at lunch. If it 
wasn’t football season, I might believe him. 
Anyway, he’s gone. Is there anything I may do?” 

He considered for an instant; then, with an 
ironical smile curling his lips, he answered, “Yes, 
if you don’t mind doing an errand for me, I 
wish you would take this parcel to this address 
on Queensboro Street. Only take care of your¬ 
self; it’s not a very reputable neighborhood. In 
fact, it’s quite the reverse. But this young lady 
is a customer of mine, and I must get this pack¬ 
age to her at once. And then, if you will kindly 
get back as soon as possible, I should like to 
have you take some dictation for me.” 

She crossed the room to take the bundle, but in 
the interval he had turned and had taken his 
stand in the window, so that she was obliged 
to follow him. Instead of handing her the par¬ 
cel at once, he pointed to the sunlit world out¬ 
side, observing, “Just look at that, Rosamund; 
there isn’t a more pleasantly situated office in 
the city.” 

“It is lovely,” she agreed, and for an instant 
forgot all else in the beauty of the scene until 
she became aware that her employer had drawn 
closer to her and that his arm was encircling 
her waist. She withdrew on the instant, cheeks 
flushed, and murmured, “Please don’t.” 


214 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


Hamlin smiled as though the words rang fa¬ 
miliarly in his ears. “And why not?” he de¬ 
manded. “You’re not a baby, Rosamund. What’s 
the harm?” 

“No harm, I suppose,” she reluctantly ad¬ 
mitted, “but—oh, I don’t know—it cheapens a 
girl so to let men do that.” 

His smile broadened. “Nothing of the kind,” 
he retorted. “On the contrary it increases her 
value. There’s no crime in being human. You 
know the old wheeze: ‘Be good and you’ll be 
happy—but awful lonesome.’ And speaking of 
value, Rosamund, what am I paying you now?” 

“Thirty-five dollars a week,” she answered. 
“You’ve raised my pay three times.” 

“That’s fairly good money,” he rejoined, 
“though perhaps,” he added with dangerous hu¬ 
mility, “^ou feel that you could do better some¬ 
where else. Or the hours may be too long. Or 
perhaps you haven’t enjoyed the few evenings 
we’ve been out together. If you’re dissatisfied 
in any way, please let me know.” 

The girl looked genuinely distressed. “No, 
indeed,” she returned, “you’ve been very kind to 
me. I never felt I deserved the place, anyway, 
and I know the pay is high and the hours are 
short. And the money very useful at home. I’ve 
enjoyed your taking me out, too, only—I don’t 
want to mix stenography and friendship; I want 
to earn my money in a strictly business-like way.” 

He gave her an appraising glance. She was 
certainly charming, and there was an innocence 


WAY OF REFORMER IS HARD 215 


and a freshness about her that stimulated his 
jaded appetite. “My dear girl,” he observed 
with a great affectation of kindly sincerity, “if 
you feel that way about it, why of course that’s 
your affair. You may be quite right; I dare 
say you are. But let me point out one fact to 
you—in recent years the status of woman has 
changed in the most remarkable way. The old 
idea was for a woman to marry, to be a slave 
to her husband, to bring up a dozen children, to 
be a household drudge. Today a pretty girl 
can drive a better bargain; she can live like a 
queen, have her own home, her cars, her jewels, 
her furs—and escape all the burdens of matri¬ 
mony. I must say I’m all for the modern idea. 
Let the homely women go ahead and marry and 
have children, but a really good-looking girl—a 
girl like you, Rosamund, ought to realize that 
she has the greatest gift in the world, and she 
ought to capitalize it for all it’s worth. You 
don’t mind,” he interrogated suddenly, “my talk¬ 
ing to you like this? Believe me, I’m doing it for 
your own good.” 

His air of entire frankness was disarming, and 
Rosamund, as she looked at him, could not help 
acknowledging to herself that there was a charm 
in his candid worldliness, in the absence of vul¬ 
garity in the picture he drew. Moreover, the 
man himself, immaculate, well-groomed, reallyi 
handsome, save for an encroaching fleshiness 
which might later degenerate into downright 
grossness—a man of ready address, not lacking 


216 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


in humor; rich, successful, thoroughly a man of 
the world, and yet so kindly and deferential—all 
this appealed to her. And the picture he drew 
had its decided attractions; it made out a strong 
case for the “bachelor girl.” So she answered, 

“No, of course I don’t mind. I can see your 
point of view. Only—well there’s what the movies 
always refer to, to escape the censor, as ‘the 
price.’ You have to consider that.” 

He shrugged his - shoulders. “Oh,” he an¬ 
swered carelessly, “that’s up to the girl, of course. 

But observe this, my dear Rosamund, she must 
decide one way or the other. It’s the old story: 
some do, and some don’t. The girl with good 
looks, who knows how to put a value on them, 
gets ahead in the world; the girl who doesn’t 
know how—or who doesn’t see fit—to get her 
money’s worth, must take her place with her less 
fortunate sisters, and either marry and be a 
drudge, or work for her living. There are three 
roads—Pleasure, Slavery, Monotony. It ought 
to be easy to choose.” 

She had listened, much as Eve must have 
listened to the serpent, fascinated, yet with down¬ 
cast eyes. Suddenly the man stepped forward, 
took her unresisting hand in his, and continued, 
even more persuasively than before, “You know^^ 
I’m crazy about you. I didn’t engage you for 
your abilities as a typist; I picked you because 
I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. 

I’d ask you to marry me if I could, but I can’t; 

I’m married already. My wife and I haven’t 


WAY OF REFORMER IS HARD 217 


lived together for years; we’ll never live together 
again, but she’s just devil enough not to let me 
get a divorce. But I’ll offer the next best thing, 
Rosamund. You mustn’t keep on working; you’re 
too pretty for that. Let me furnish an apart¬ 
ment for you, and give you everything you want 
for three months. We’ll go around together in 
the most proper fashion possible, see the town 
and have a lot of fun. But for three months your 
flat is your own, and you’re the only person with 
a key. You understand; I shan’t bother you in 
any way. At the end of three months make up 
your mind; if you don’t enjoy that kind of life, 
give it up, and either get married and raise a 
family or go back to your typing—for someone 
else. If, on the other hand, as I hope and expect, 
you will enjoy it, then we’ll keep right on, only 
on a slightly more intimate footing. And any¬ 
thing you want, my dear girl, that I’m rich 
enough to buy—and I’m not a pauper—will be 
yours, just by raising your finger. I’m sure you 
would be very happy; I’m sure—” 

The telephone on his desk interrupted his flow 
of eloquence, and with a muttered oath, he turned 
to answer it, then scowled, and in an aside to 
Rosamund explained, “I’m in for a talk. Go 
ahead with the errand, please; I’ll see you later.” 
And Rosamund, taking the parcel, hastily left 
the room. 

“I feel quite shivery and wicked,” she thought 
to herself, as she walked toward Park Street, 
“and I suppose I oughtn’t to have listened to 


218 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


him at all. I couldn’t help it, though; it was 
quite exciting. Of course I wouldn t be such 
a fool. I’ll make Walter miserable a little longer, 
and listen to his assurances of devotion, and then 
some day when I’m feeling very good-humored 
indeed I’ll accept him, and we’ll ‘live happily 
forever after.’ And Mr. Hamlin can find some 
other lady for his motors and furs; there are 
plenty of them, goodness knows; and always will 
be, I imagine.” 

Hamlin, meantime, his conversation ended, 
hung up the telephone receiver and walked over 
to the window again. “Queer things, girls,” he 
reflected. “Something has surely happened to 
Mabel; she’s changed entirely. Some other fel¬ 
low on the string, perhaps. And this little flap¬ 
per’s got to make up her mind what she wants. 
Funny idea, sending her to Mabel’s. Each will 
give the other the eye, and each will draw her 
own private conclusions. That’s the idea—play 
’em off, one against the other. Keep ’em guess¬ 
ing. I’d like to see their faces when they look 
at each other. Well, never mind; we’ll see how 
cotton’s doing.” And he returned to his desk. 

That same afternoon at precisely the same 
moment Hamlin stood looking out of his office 
window, Walter Randall alighted from a surface 
car and began making his way in the direction of 
Queensboro Street. Judging from his expression, 
he was far from sharing Hamlin’s optimism re¬ 
garding the world. “I’ll bet,” he reflected, “that 


WAY OF REFORMER IS HARD 219 


I m going to make a fool of myself—even more 
so than usual, I mean.” 

A few moment’s walk brought him to the re¬ 
membered street and number, and his first act, 
as he entered the vestibule, was to look for the 
card he had seen on his former visit. There it 
was, as before, and he reflected, “Well, whether 
that’s camouflage or whether it isn’t, I’ll stand 
a better chance of finding her if I can get up 
without ringing.” 

He tried the inner door which, to his satis¬ 
faction, yielded readily enough, and he made 
his way to the third floor and knocked on the 
door. A moment’s silence; then footsteps, and 
the next instant the door opened and Stella 
Leslie, is charming negligee, confronted him. 

For a second her face showed utter surprise, 
which in turn gave place to a look distinctly 
hostile, and for a moment it seemed to Randall 
that she would gladly have closed the door in 
his face. He had, however, thoughtfully insin¬ 
uated his left foot beyond the sill, and whether 
or not she noticed this, her expression altered 
suddenly to one of cordiality and she exclaimed, 
“Why, it’s Mr. Randall, isn’t it? Pardon me; 
I didn’t recognize you. Won’t you come in?” 

“Thanks very much,” Randall rejoined mechan¬ 
ically, and a minute later found himself seated in 
a living room furnished unobtrusively but in ir¬ 
reproachable taste, and looking from the depths 
of a comfortable arm chair at the handsome girl 
who sat on the sofa, eyeing him with complete 


220 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


self-possession. “This is quite a surprise, she 
observed artlessly. “I didn’t realize you knew 
where I lived.” 

This remark, fraught with feminine diplomacy, 
was equivalent to a direct interrogation, and 
Randall determined to meet the situation square¬ 
ly. “Miss Leslie,” he began, “I’m sure it’s best 
to be quite frank with you. I am on a distaste¬ 
ful errand; I’m meddling in what is none of my 
business. Let me tell you the absolute truth, 
and then, if you see fit, I shall be glad if you 
will reciprocate. Do you remember, last June, 
going to the track games in the Stadium between 
Yale and Harvard?” 

“Perfectly,” she replied. “I went with your 
cousin, Frank Endicott.” 

“Exactly,” he agreed, “and I took your sister 
Rosamund, and we saw you there. Still later 
that evening, I saw you again, at The Victorian 
this time, and I followed you home.” 

She looked at him between narrowing lids. 
“Just a bit unusual—for a gentleman?” she 
queried. 

“Rather,” he answered. “But let me remind 
you that I need not have told you all this; I am 
being, perhaps, unnecessarily truthful. And I 
shall forestall your next question by explaining 
why I committed so unusual an indiscretion. It 
was because, partly from seeing you with my 
cousin that afternoon, partly from things I heard 
outside, I felt very sure that his interest in you 
must be exceedingly serious,” 


WAY OF REFORMER IS HARD 221 


“And that surprised you,” she smiled. “And I 
fear not only surprised you but shocked you as 
well. Do I draw the correct inference ?” 

Randall hesitated. “Yes and no,” he answered 
at length. “Your question isn't a fair one. Let 
me answer it in this way. That any man who 
saw you should fall in love with you wouldn’t 
surprise me—the surprise would be if he didn’t— 
but if I had been going to pick the one man 
in the world who I thought was absolutely im¬ 
mune from falling in love, that man would have 
been Frank Endicott. That is the only sense 
in which I felt surprise.” 

She smiled. “You’re very polite and wonder¬ 
fully diplomatic. Rut how about your being 
shockedr Can you explain that as ingeniously?” 

“I shan’t try,” he rejoined. “I’m not inge¬ 
nious; I’m ingenuous. After seeing you with 
Frank in the afternoon, to run across you again 
that same evening in such different surround¬ 
ings and with such a different type of escort, was 
something of a shock. I wondered, to be honest, 
at the violence of the transition; I wondered 
which was the true Stella Leslie. And so I yielded 
to impulse and followed you home.” 

She gazed at him reflectively. “I am really 
quite honored,” she observed with withering sar¬ 
casm. “I never dreamed that I should become 
the object of such attention. But—pardon me, 
if I seem rude—I can’t quite see, I don’t quite 
understand, where you come in. Isn’t your 
cousin able to manage his own affairs? And am 


222 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


I not able, in my humble way, to do the same? 
I shouldn’t dream of interfering with your—what 
shall we call them?—affairs of the heart; and I 
dare say I’m stupid, but I can’t see, for the life 
of me, why you should interfere with mine. 

Randall visibly winced, but answered without 
hesitation, “That’s the point, of course, and it’s 
not easy for me to put it in so many words 
without offending you. But with your permis¬ 
sion I’ll try. Frank Endicott is a peculiar man. 
He’s headstrong, a law unto himself. He doesn’t 
understand working with others and so he has 
never been popular. His devotion to religion is 
quite extreme. On the other hand, he is as 
honorable, as brave, as high-minded a man as 
there is in the world. His war record was super¬ 
latively fine, and his family is old and distin¬ 
guished in many ways. His devotion to you is 
so obvious—so increasingly obvious—that, know¬ 
ing him as I do, I feel certain that he wishes to 
marry you. And so I wondered, after seeing you 
on the night of the track games, whether you 
and Frank really would be well suited to one 
another. I wondered if he knew you were living 
here, apparently under an assumed name, and— 
well, entertaining visitors late at night—whether 
he would be just as eager to marry you.” 

The girl threw back her head with an imperious 
gesture. “Mr. Randall,” she remonstrated, “how 
dare you! Why, you are positively insulting. 
You certainly owe me an apology.” 

Randall, feeling decidedly uncomfortable, 


WAY OF REFORMER IS HARD 223 


flushed to the roots of his hair. “I mean no 
insult, he rejoined, but seeing you drive home 
with a man after midnight, and then seeing the 
taxi depart—” 

Her angry expression changed to one of amuse¬ 
ment. “Really/’ she exclaimed, “I can’t take you 
seriously; you are too ridiculous. I am under 
no obligation to justify myself to you, but the 
name downstairs is that of my employer, now 
abroad, and the man you saw me with was a 
relative with whom I am on intimate terms. He 
took me to dinner that night, and naturally es¬ 
corted me home afterward. He even stayed half 
an hour and we had a bite to eat; then he went 
home. And on the strength of that,” she con¬ 
tinued, her expression hardening again, “you come 
here and make insinuations regarding my charac¬ 
ter. I call it positively outrageous; I shall cer¬ 
tainly take the first opportunity of letting Mr. 
Endicott know.” 


Randall, remembering vividly his cousin’s un¬ 
compromising attitude, felt a sensation akin to 
horror. “For heaven’s sake,” he cried, “don’t do 
that. I apologize. I’m wrong. I admit it. 
Only don’t mess things up any more. I quit right 
here. I’ll never say another word to you or to 
Frank. Go your own way. I’ve learned my les¬ 
son. I won’t even tell him you live here.” 

Again the girl was moved to laughter. “What 
do you think your cousin is?” she inquired. “He 
knows I live here. He comes to see me—” 

A bell rang sharply in the rear of the apart- 


224 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


ment, and she rose from her seat. “Don’t go, 
please,” she said. “I’ll only be a moment. Gro¬ 
ceries, or ice, or something of the sort.” 

She vanished, leaving Randall in a state of mind 
acutely miserable. Presently there came a knock 
at the door and he stepped forward mechanically 
to open it. He stood there transfixed with aston¬ 
ishment as he recognized Rosamund Leslie, hold¬ 
ing a parcel in her extended hand. For an in¬ 
stant his head reeled, then he was sharply con¬ 
scious that her own look of amazement mirrored 
his own. 

“You!” 

“You!” 

The two monosyllables met, as it were, head 
on, with a crash of impact which might, under 
circumstances less tragic, have savored of humor. 
Rosamund, by far the quicker-witted of the two, 
was the first to recover herself, fathoming the 
situation with that unerring feminine instinct 
which disregards the possibility of mistake. Forc¬ 
ing the package into his hand, she exclaimed, 
“For Miss Moore; for your Miss Moore!” Then, 
turning, she walked swiftly away down the hall. 

At last Randall’s brain came to life. “Hold 
on!” he cried. “Rosamund! Wait a minute!” 
But she was already descending the stairs. With 
an exclamation more forcible than polite, he threw 
the bundle on the table, seized his hat and tore 
downstairs at breakneck speed. The street re¬ 
gained, he perceived her some distance away, 
walking rapidly in the direction of the car line. 


WAY OF REFORMER IS HARD 225 


Breaking into a run, he managed to overtake her. 

“Rosamund,” he implored, but she turned on 
him in a cold fury of anger. “I forbid you to 
speak to me,” she exclaimed. “I never wish to 
see you again. You hypocrite, talking to me of 
beauty and ideals, and your love for me! And 
then to find you—like this. Some men run after 
women, and admit it; but to be a man like that, 
and then to pretend to be a saint—oh, it’s too 
disgusting. Don’t ever come near me again. 
I’m through!” 

She walked on. Randall, writhing at the injus¬ 
tice of his position, made one more effort. “If 
you’ll listen—” he began, but she wheeled upon 
him, actually stamping her tiny foot in the inten¬ 
sity of her wrath, and pointing to the corner, 
where a figure in official blue stood enjoying the 
warmth of the sunshine. “Do you see that offi¬ 
cer?” she exclaimed, “If you dare say one more 
word to me, I’ll have you arrested. Is that 
plain?” And without waiting for an answer, she 
swept on, leaving Randall standing helplessly on 
the sidewalk. 

A huge wave of dejection seemed to engulf 
him; he raised one hand uncertainly to his 
head. “Help! Assistance! Succor!” he mur¬ 
mured to himself. And after a moment he re¬ 
peated with vigor the final word. “Sucker!” he 
ejaculated bitterly. “That’s right. Why on 
earth couldn’t I let things alone?” 


XIV 


The Claws of the Tiger 

The afternoon was drawing to a close. The 
sun, obscured by threatening clouds, sank lower 
and lower; lengthening shadows dimmed the field. 
Since the whistle had sounded, an hour and a 
half ago, and the oval ball had gone spinning on 
its way toward Harvard’s goal, an orgy of deli¬ 
rium had reigned in the Princeton Stadium. Con- 
tinuous waving of banners, crimson or orange 
and black; steady, rhythmic cheering, precise, 
automatic, volley after volley of vocal artillery; 
and always, in unceasing undertone, now swell¬ 
ing, now diminishing, like the advance and re¬ 
treat of breakers on a stormbound coast, the 
thunderous uproar from fifty thousand throats, 
the elemental fury of human beings crazed by 
conflict and the lust of victory. But now, as 
though the sun’s departure had been a signal, 
weary lungs sought rest, and the tumult first 
slackened and then almost wholly ceased. Some¬ 
thing approaching quiet descended upon the field. 

Half way up the Princeton side of the Stadium, 
in a seat procured by a miracle of fortune at the 
eleventh hour, Arthur Meredith sat hunched and 
cowering, his face colorless, his hands gripping 
the seat beneath him, his whole body trembling 
226 


THE CLAWS OF THE TIGER 227 


with excitement. His glance shifted mechanically 
from field to scoreboard, from scoreboard to 
field. On the black background the huge white 
figures stood out clear and distinct against the 
sky: Harvard, 3; Princeton, 0. In a state of 
nervous excitement bordering almost on mad¬ 
ness, the strange obsession possessed him that 
these figures might suddenly and myteriously 
change unless he watched them cunningly and 
without rest. Yet a saner impulse bade him also 
watch the field, and now, for the hundredth time, 
he turned his eyes from the figures which spelt 
success and safety to the scarred surface of the 
brown arena where the rival elevens would shortly 
close in the last desperate grapple of the day. A 
bare half minute remained of the interval between 
the third and fourth quarters. To his right the 
Princeton players, possessors of the ball, were 
grouped in a compact circle, discussing the tactics 
to be employed in their last mighty effort when 
the quarter should begin. To the left their Har¬ 
vard foemen were scattered here and there about 
the field, three or four, heads thrown back, rinsing 
their parched throats with potations from the 
water pail; the rest, weight relaxed on bended 
knees, husbanding every ounce of energy for 
the desperate attack which they knew was bound 
to come. 

And now, in this brief interval of silence, Mere¬ 
dith’s brain seemed suddenly to clear. Ever since 
he had taken his seat in the Stadium, for any¬ 
thing that he had heard or seen of his fellow 


228 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


spectators he might have been the only person in 
that huge enclosure. It was for him alone that 
these opposing warriors had fought their way up 
and down the field; his alone had been the thrill 
of the kick-off, the keen agony when the Prince¬ 
ton line had gained, the exultation when Harvard 
had blocked them and assumed the offensive. It 
was for his eyes only that on Princeton’s thirty- 
yard line, on the fourth down with eight yards 
to gain, Dick Meredith had dropped back, calmly 
received a perfect pass, and had booted the ball 
directly between the goal posts and twenty feet 
over the bar. Even then, he had heeded only 
subconsciously the mighty outburst which had 
broken forth across the field, the flare of crimson 
flags, the storm of throat-rending shouts and 
cheers. Nor had he triumphed at the sudden 
silence that reigned around him, the downcast 
faces, the all-pervading atmosphere of gloom. No 
thought of Harvard or of Princeton had crossed 
his mind. There was no rejoicing, even, for his 
brother’s triumph. His only thought was for him¬ 
self. Ten thousand dollars lay within his grasp. 
Over and over he repeated the words to himself: 
“Ten thousand dollars! Ten thousand dollars!” 
The greed of the gambler rioted in his veins. 
Iridescent dreams flooded his brain. One thou¬ 
sand he would spend at once on jewels for his 
wife, gifts that would win for him what he prized 
most in all the world. All that the Harvard 
players need do was hold their lead. And hold it 
they could; holding it they were. The Crimson 


THE CLAWS OF THE TIGER 229 


line was no longer flesh and blood, but iron; im¬ 
pregnable, magnificent— 

Thus he had sat there, huddled in his seat, 
living in a world of his own. But now, in this 
sudden lull in the uproar of sound, he became 
acutely conscious for the first time that on all 
sides of him were multitudes of other human 
beings, and it was with amazement that he real¬ 
ized that gaiety was actually uppermost in their 
minds. Even here, on the Princeton side of the 
field with Harvard leading, these imbeciles about 
him really appeared to be thoroughly happy. 
Inconceivable as it seemed, a holiday spirit per¬ 
vaded the crowd. They had come to enjoy them¬ 
selves and they were doing it. Grimly Meredith 
reflected on the change that would come over 
these vapid, smiling faces if they were suddenly 
told that they stood to win—or lose—ten thou¬ 
sand dollars on the game. Directly in front of 
him, three young girls, under escort of a father 
and a “prep” school son, talked shrilly and in 
concert. Scraps of their chatter came to his ears. 
“They’re going to be shorter and tighter—” 
“And so he said—” “Don’t you love that?” 
Meredith’s lip curled in scorn. At his right a 
gray-haired, ruddy-faced giant, with the jaw of a 
pugilist but the garb of a millionaire, whose 
orange and black tie proclaimed him a son of old 
Nassau, glanced keenly at the stop watch in his 
hand. “Another half minute,” he boomed to his 
companion, “and they’ll be at it again. And you’ll 
see Princeton score this quarter! Harvard’s all 


230 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


right, and they’ve been damn well coached, but 
for real guts give me our boys.” And suitably 
to punctuate his sentence he growled for good 
measure, “Yes, by God!” 

Meredith felt his blood flame. He experienced 
strong instinctive hatred for this man. A Prince¬ 
ton score! At the thought the flame in his 
blood congealed to ice and he drew a quick 
breath to ward off a sudden oppressive contrac¬ 
tion in the muscles of his throat. A Princeton 
score— 

Over the silence of the field the whistle shrilled. 
Instantly the little knot of Princeton players 
broke and formed in battle line; with equal speed 
their adversaries leaped to the defense, throwing 
off as if by magic their deceptive aspect of weari¬ 
ness. “47—16—38—42—” The mud-stained 
quarterback with the smear of blood on his cheek, 
barked the signals. Back from the centre flashed 
the ball. Toward the right of the Harvard line 
darted the Princeton offense. Then, with a clever 
criss-cross, a single figure darted from the group 
in a desperate effort to circle the crimson’s un¬ 
protected left end. A good play, and the roar 
from the Princeton side of the field smote ago¬ 
nizingly on Meredith’s ears until in the Harvard 
backfield he saw his brother’s lithe figure speeding 
toward the Princeton runner at just the requisite 
angle, at just the right rate of speed. And even 
as the Tiger halfback saw a vision of a clear 
field ahead, Dick Meredith’s arms gripped him, 
and a low, diving tackle brought down the man 


THE CLAWS OF THE TIGER 231 


as a duck hawk strikes its prey. The Princeton 
uproar died; out burst the clamor from the Har¬ 
vard sections, and the flaunting of dark-red ban¬ 
ners filled the air. 

The players, strewn grotesquely about the field 
like tenpins after the impact of a well-aimed ball, 
leaped or struggled to their feet and started to 
take their places in the line; then stopped as 
they perceived that Lawton, the Princeton back, 
still lay where he had fallen, flat on his face, 
his body writhing painfully, his legs moving con¬ 
vulsively up and down. 

“He’s done for,” cried a voice behind Meredith. 
“When they act like that, they’re badly hurt. 
They’ll take him out; you see if they don’t.” 

The customary bustle ensued; first the dash of 
the water-bearers, pails in hand; at their heels 
the trainer and the doctor on the double-quick; 
finally the raising of the injured player and his 
removal to the side lines in the arms of two 
husky substitutes, fighting, protesting, demand¬ 
ing to be left in the game, while both sides of 
the Stadium rang with the applause which always 
greets the sight of courage and the brave endur¬ 
ance of pain. 

Scarcely had this mighty outburst died away 
when it burst forth again, this time from the 
Princeton section, redoubling in volume as a 
stalwart blonde giant slipped off his blanket and 
reported to the referee. In spite of the slight 
limp from an injured knee which had kept this 
sturdy warrior chafing on the sidelines for the 


232 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


greater part of the year, his appearance was a 
tremendous reassurance to every Princeton sym¬ 
pathizer. 

The enthusiast behind Meredith nearly choked 
in his excitement; his voice rang shrill and forced: 
“It’s Brandon! Sammy Brandon! Sam! Sam! 
Oh you Sam!” And a moment later ten thou¬ 
sand throats were re-echoing the cry. 

Meredith felt a hand of ice grip his heart. 
All through the early Fall the papers had rung 
with the exploits of this big, rangy halfback, who 
weighed two hundred pounds when in condition, 
yet who was so swift and light of foot that he 
could run a hundred yards close to “evens” and 
could clear the bar at six feet in the high jump. 
He was regarded, indeed, as Dick Meredith’s 
closest rival in the East, while many claimed that 
with another year’s experience he would be rated 
an even better player than Meredith himself. 
“The battering-ram,” “The human bullet,” “The 
bone-crusher”—the reporters had striven hard to 
do justice to his slashing, bull-like onslaughts on 
the opposing line. And then had come the day, 
six weeks ago, when he had ended a ten-yard 
gain with half a dozen men on top of him and 
had tried to rise, only to sink back with a knee 
so badly wrenched that further play for the sea¬ 
son had seemed impossible. Yet doctors, trainers 
and rubbers can perform miracles, and here he 
was, falling into his place behind the line with 
grit and power and determination written in every 
line of his muscular frame. Again the man behind 


THE CLAWS OF THE TIGER 233 


Meredith voiced the feelings of the crowd. 
“Sammy’ll give all he’s got!” he shouted. “Just 
you watch him. He’ll drill that Harvard line full 
of holes.” 

That Brandon would carry the ball on the next 
rush seemed, indeed, inevitable. Every spectator 
felt it; doubtless the Crimson team expected it 
also. And Shurtleff, the alert, sawed-off Prince¬ 
ton quarter, made subtle use of the game’s psy¬ 
chology and, “crossing” everyone but his mates, 
risked and completed a daring forward pass, mak¬ 
ing it first down on Harvard’s forty-yard line. 
Then, taking instant advantage of the dash and 
power that come with success, he injected Bran¬ 
don into play after play. Crash! Two yards at 
centre. Bang! Four yards off tackle. Biff! 
Three yards through left guard. Whing! Whang! 
First down again. Grimly, relentlessly, with the 
Crimson line desperately opposing each fractional 
gain, the Orange and Black carried the ball to 
their opponent’s twenty-yard line. And then, 
with the Princeton side of the Stadium gone fran¬ 
tic, came the change. Like a tide which has 
reached flood, the gains ended; the Harvard de¬ 
fense stiffened, transformed itself into an impene¬ 
trable barrier. Once, twice, the Princeton backs 
charged, only to be dropped in their tracks. On 
the next play Kellogg, the dark-haired Harvard 
tackle, broke through and downed Brandon for 
a four-yard loss. What would follow thus became 
almost a certainty. “They’ll try to drop kick,” 
was the universal cry, and sure enough Brandon, 


234 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


falling back, received the ball and drop kicked 
cleanly toward the Harvard goal. The elevation 
was perfect; the direction almost so; but a tricky, 
shifty wind blew gustily across the field and after 
an instant of breathless suspense the ball shot by, 
a foot outside the posts, so close that many 
Princeton supporters were shouting for a score 
until the big “NO GOAL” sign appeared upon 
the bulletin board to dash their hopes. 

It was evident to all that Harvard’s policy 
would now be to “play safe,” if indeed it is pos¬ 
sible to pursue such a policy amid the kaleido¬ 
scopic shifts and chances of modern football. A 
couple of line plunges were followed by a punt, 
and it was Princeton’s ball on her own forty-yard 
line. “Now then, Princeton,” rang from the 
stands, “right down the field!” But the distance 
was long and the time short. Once before the 
Harvard line had proved impregnable, and to the 
surprise of the greater part of the crowd, Har¬ 
vard’s kick was at once returned. 

“Rotten judgment!” shrieked a wild-eyed en¬ 
thusiast on Meredith’s left. Whereupon the big 
man with the flaring tie turned savagely upon 
him. “Shut up! Can’t you get the idea? They’re 
looking for a fumble—a muffed punt—any break 
at all. There’s only three minutes left to play.” 

The truth of what he said was evident, but 
the critic refused to approve the strategy of the 
Prkiceton team. “Rotten dope!” he yelled again. 
“That Meredith guy doesn’t muff punts; he eats 
’em alive.” And the fact that Meredith had 


THE CLAWS OF THE TIGER 235 


rushed the ball back fifteen yards lent added 
iorce to his words. 

Right or wrong, however, the Princeton quar¬ 
ter persisted in his course, and with each ex¬ 
change of punts Arthur Meredith felt his courage 
rise. Not more than a minute of play remained, 
and for the first time that day, with victory at 
hand, he could survey the scene before him with 
something like enjoyment. Princeton had the 
ball in the middle of the field, about to kick 
again; Meredith and one of his fellow backs were 
waiting, far down toward their own goal. The 
west was filled with storm-black clouds, the wind 
had risen and shifted, and whistled so savagely 
down the field that the signals were inaudible as 
the ball shot back into Brandon’s hands. A mo¬ 
ment’s suspense and it rose, soaring, a perfect 
punt, twisting, elusive, with the riotous wind 
pursuing it and driving it erratically from its 
course. Awaiting it, stood Dick Meredith, weary, 
battered, but with heart as stout as when he had 
entered the game, filled with an overwhelming 
joy, for he knew that the struggle must be almost 
ended. The catch, the run back, the scrimmage, 
the whistle—and the long, hard battle would be 
over. But all these thoughts were vague, sub¬ 
conscious, shadow-like; all his conscious energies 
were concentrated upon the descending ball. 
Down it came, a final gust of wind giving it a 
serpentine, elusive twist, making necessary a 
quick step to the right. This step Meredith took; 
with it came the slightest possible slipping of a 


236 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


cleat; and in the next fraction of a second the 
practically impossible had happened, and Dick 
Meredith, for the first time since he had donned 
a Crimson jersey three years before, had muffed 
a punt. 

Muffed a punt! Nor was that all, for with a 
swoop like the dart of a falcon the tall, rangy 
Princeton end had stooped, recovered the ball, 
and before the crowd could realize what was 
happening, had dashed over Harvard’s line for a 
touchdown. There followed one instant of utter 
breathlessness, tense, pregnant; then the storm 
broke—hysterical, tumultuous. Men, according 
to their temperaments, laughed, wept, shouted, 
sang, cursed; wrung the hands and slapped the 
backs of utter strangers; women, bewildered but 
feeling that something important must have 
happened, simulated excitement and frenzied joy. 
Utter chaos swept the Princeton stands— 

In the midst of it all Arthur Meredith, face 
chalk-white, staggered unsteadily to his feet and 
made his way out through the howling crowd. 
His bewildered brain was incapable of any se¬ 
quence of thought; at one leap he passed from 
the defeat to what must be for him its logical 
outcome. He was utterly unconscious of his 
surroundings; one picture obsessed him, held him 
enthralled. It was dark; his hands gripped the 
railing of the bridge; from below the murmuring 
water, sinister, pitiless, called to him. Truly, the 
game had reached its end. 


XV 


Mary Magdalene 

Dick Meredith, alone in his study, impatiently 
consulted his watch. “Ten minutes late now,” 
he muttered. “Bad enough to have them come 
anyway, with the Yale game only three days 
away, but they might at least be on time.” Yet 
even as he spoke he heard the sound of foot¬ 
steps in the corridor, and a moment later had 
risen to usher his brother and his sister-in-law 
into the room. 

“Well,” Dick observed, as his visitors seated 
themselves, “I got your letter, Arthur. You say 
this is something serious?” 

“Serious?” broke in Mary Meredith before her 
husband had a chance to answer, and speaking 
in a tone in which bitterness, anger and con¬ 
tempt were blended. “Do you call it serious 
when you write Arthur a letter advising him to 
bet on Harvard against Princeton, and he em¬ 
bezzles ten thousand dollars to bet with? Serious! 
He’ll go to jail for it. A fine thing for the Mere¬ 
dith name. Oh, you’ll soon see whether it’s 
serious or not.” 

Dick Meredith’s face went white. He stared 
incredulously at his brother, who sat huddled 
and motionless in his chair, never raising his eyes 
237 


238 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


from the carpet, his fingers nervously fumbling at 
his hat brim. “Arthur,” he cried, “you didn’t 
do that?” 

His brother’s silence and miserable half nod 
were confirmation enough, and Dick, convinced 
against his will, could only ask, “What on earth 
made you do such a thing?” 

“I don’t know,” Arthur Meredith answered in 
a voice lacking all resonance. “I must have been 
crazy—” 

Again Mary Meredith struck in, “You were 
nothing of the sort, Arthur. How dare you ask 
him, Dick, why he did such a thing when the 
whole affair was your doing? You know per¬ 
fectly well that you are to blame.” 

“I?” cried Meredith in indignant surprise. 
“What rot, Mary. It’s nothing to do with me.” 

“Is that so?” retorted the woman. “You’ve 
forgotten your own letter, have you? Just wait 
a minute—” A pause, followed by the rustling 
of paper, and then triumphantly, “Now listen: 
‘So I feel no doubt about either game, and as I 
know Bob Langdon always likes to have some¬ 
thing down on a good thing, you are at liberty 
to tell him that I consider a bet on Harvard, at 
about ten to eight or ten to seven, the next thing 
to betting on an absolute certainy. Yours, Dick.’ 
So what do you say to that?” 

“What do I say to that?” Dick answered. “I 
say: What of it? Do you mean to argue that 
because I gave Arthur a tip for a friend that that 
was any excuse for his running wild and betting 


MARY MAGDALENE 


239 


ten thousand dollars on Harvard? Don’t be a 
fool, Mary!” 

Lightning swift came the retort. “Oh, I’m not 
the fool. Don’t worry. It’s you who have been 
the fool. When you tell a man that Harvard is 
sure to win, and that anyone who bets on Har¬ 
vard is going to make money, isn’t that practically 
telling him to go ahead and bet himself? Of 
course it is. There’s no use in your trying—” 

Here Arthur Meredith’s voice again broke in, 
still dull and dispirited, “Well, don’t fight about 
it. It makes no "difference now; the mischief’s 
done. What I want to know is—” 

The woman interrupted savagely, “Shut up! 
Don’t say that it makes no difference when it 
makes all the difference in the world. It’s Dick’s 
fault. He practically tells you to bet; and then 
he loses the game by his own rotten play. He’s 
got to make good. That’s all there is to it. 
Except for you he’d never be in Harvard anyway. 
He’s simply got to get you out of this mess.” 

“She puts it too strongly, Dick,” Arthur Mere¬ 
dith’s deprecating voice resumed, “but you can 
see there’s something in what she says. I hope 
you’ll do what you can for me. I’ve been through 
hell itself.” His tone bore witness to his words. 
“I won’t face it. If we can’t raise the money, 
I’ll put myself out of the way. I could never tell 
Mr. Loring—” 

There was silence. At length Dick Meredith 
spoke. “Arthur, I admit that I owe you more 
than I can ever repay, and though I really can’t 


240 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


blame myself for this, still, as you say, that’s 
not the question now. We’ve got to pull out 
of this somehow. You can count on me to the 
limit, but ten thousand dollars—that’s a lot of 
money. I shall have to do some thinking. And 
now,” he added, “I don’t wish to seem disagree¬ 
able, but we’re on the eve of the Yale game, and 
I’m supposed to have nothing on my mind to 
worry me. As soon as the game is over we’ll get 
together and I’ll do anything that can be done 
to beg or borrow ten thousand dollars. Is that 
fair ? ” 

“Of course it is,” his brother answered. “Ex¬ 
cuse us, Dick, for coming tonight. I ought to 
have known better. But I’ve kept it to myself 
as long as I could; it’s driving me crazy. I had 
even forgotten the Yale game. We’ll go now. 
Good-night.” 

Left alone, Dick thought hard and fast. 
“Stella—” he speculated. “How is she getting 
along with Frank Endicott? Would there be a 
chance of getting the money there?” Then, after 
a moment’s pause, “A rotten trick, though; Endi- 
cott’s a good fellow, if he is peculiar. I ought 
never to have told Stella to ‘vamp’ him. What 
things you’ll do when you lose your temper! 
And yet it’s a choice of evils; I can’t have my 
brother a scandal in the papers, and see him wind 
up in prison. Stella’s away, but she gets back 
tomorrow. I’ll write her, and put on a special 
delivery stamp and mail it now.” And in another 
instant he was writing hastily, mentally cursing 


MARY MAGDALENE 


241 


the wild and incredible folly of Arthur Meredith. 

Thus, on the following morning, when Stella 
Leslie, lovely in her sable furs, returned to her 
flat after her ten days’ trip to Maine, it was 
Meredith’s letter which lay uppermost on the 
heap of mail which awaited her. Other letters, 
also addressed in masculine handwriting, were 
included in the collection, and two of these, in 
addition to Dick’s she read and reread with care. 
Then, with a carelessly inclusive glance at cir¬ 
culars and advertisements, she swept all this 
chaff into the waste-paper basket, and sat gazing 
straight before her, hands clasped thoughtfully 
around one upraised knee. 

“How delightful,” she reflected half-aloud, “to 
have so many friends so eager for one’s return. 
And for such varying reasons. Dick wants 
money to save his brother’s name, says he’s in 
desperate need of it, and wonders if I can’t bring 
Frank Endicott to the point of proposing, and 
then pull off a rapid-fire marriage, divorce, ali¬ 
mony and division of spoils. There’s no use 
considering that. I might have, three months 
ago, but that was before I really knew Frank; 
I think too much of him now. I never had any¬ 
one place me on a pedestal before, worship me 
as he does. I simply couldn’t treat him like that. 
It’s impossible. And Frank himself writes that 
he’s ‘missed me terribly,’ and that he’s coming to 
see me at eight tonight and has something very 
important to say to me. That’s just like him— 
old-fashioned and proper—and it surely means 


242 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


that he’s going to propose. And Ed writes that 
he wishes to have our talk immediately on my 
return, and would like to have me telephone him 
as soon as possible. What shall I do? Get 
through with Ed, anyway; that’s inevitable. And 
marry Frank? I’d like to. Marry him, and stay 
married; be respectable, accepted. But I sup¬ 
pose it’s not possible. Ed’s not a thoroughbred; 
he might talk, probably would. And when Frank 
found out, he would be furious; he might kill 
me. And I couldn’t blame him; it would be too 
mean a trick. Well, I may as well see Ed and 
have that over with; I’ll telephone him now.” 

It was less than an hour before Hamlin ap¬ 
peared at the flat, and she made evident the 
change in their relations when she studiously 
avoided his customary kiss. He affected, how¬ 
ever, to ignore her evasion, inquiring casually as 
he seated himself, “Enjoy your trip?” 

“Very much, indeed,” she answered absently; 
then, without further preliminaries, came straight 
to the point. “We’ve been together now for two 
years,” she said. “I think we’ve both lived up 
to our bargain. I know you have and I hope I 
have. Now I want to get through.” 

Hamlin evinced no surprise. “I knew this was 
coming,” he replied with resignation. “I’ve seen 
the change in you for the last half year. And of 
course if you want to quit, why you do quit. 
But what’s the big idea? Someone else? Going 
to get married? Going into a convent? Going 
on the stage?” 


MARY MAGDALENE 


243 


She could not restrain a smile. “You give me 
a wide enough choice, but I can’t really answer 
you because I don’t know myself. Only—I have 
changed. I’m sorry now we ever started—this.” 

Hamlin frowned. “That’s the big trouble with 
all you girls,” he observed fretfully. “You’re so 
damned changeable. But that,” he added, “is 
neither here nor there. As I say, if you want 
to quit, why you do quit. And that’s that. We’ve 
had a good time—at least I have. Now we’ll 
dissolve the partnership, and no harm done.” 

She sighed, as though wishing she could find 
herself in agreement with his statement of the 
case. “Ed,” she said at length, “now that every¬ 
thing is over, I wish you would tell me some¬ 
thing. What does a man like you really think 
about women? You know what I mean. Some 
men, even today, are naturally chivalrous—they 
respect all women, even those who perhaps aren’t 
worthy of respect. They act as though they 
thought men and women could be friends—as 
though the sex element wasn’t a bar. But you’re 
not like that. I don’t think you have the slightest 
respect—the slightest real regard—for any woman 
in the world. Now have you? I want the truth.” 

Hamlin considered. “Well,” he at length ad¬ 
mitted, “I guess you’ve about said it. Of course 
I admire women tremendously—more than I do 
any other animal—but respect them—no. And 
friendly regard—again no. There may be men— 
in fact, as you say, there are men—with unde¬ 
veloped sexual instincts who regard all women 


244 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


as their sisters. I’m not that kind, and I thank 
the Lord I’m not. For me the sex element, as 
you call it, does prevent these sisterly friendships. 
When I was a boy I liked to chase butterflies 
and catch them for my collection; now that Eve 
grown up I like to chase and catch women. I’m 
a zealous scientist, an eager student of the sex. 
Some day Ell write a book on Wild Women 1 Have 
Tamed” 

Stella, as she listened, shuddered in spite of 
herself, not so much at the man’s words as at his 
callous sincerity, as he sat there, rosy, sleek, 
prosperous, his glance, keen and hard as flint, the 
true reflection of his heart. A man who might 
pose as the very incarnation of Mammon. And 
in her mind she saw Endicott’s clear cut, spiritual 
face, thought of his splendid chivalry, his eager¬ 
ness to aid the downtrodden and oppressed. And 
she, in the pride of her reckless youth, had lis¬ 
tened to this man before her, had yearned for 
the good things of life, had bartered her body 
for the fleshpots; and suddenly, her cheeks flush¬ 
ing as if at the exposure of her spiritual naked¬ 
ness, she buried her face in her hands. 

Hamlin looked on with disfavor, uncom¬ 
prehending. Scenes appalled him. “I guess 
you’re tired,” he observed. “Better take it easy 
for a while.” 

She looked up quickly. “It’s not that,” she 
answered. “If I could only make you see. Eve 
been working among poor people; Eve seen good 
husbands, good wives; Eve had children at my 


MARY MAGDALENE 


245 


knee. And somehow—I can’t put it into words 
—but it seems as though the world were divided 
into two camps—one struggling for something— 
an ideal of some sort, for goodness—and the other 
striving for evil. And I have been in the evil 
camp, selfish, luxurious, never thinking of others, 
and—I’d give anything if I could undo the last 
two years.” 

He rose. “I don’t believe I get you,” he re¬ 
marked coldly. “It’s a short life, and there’s no 
future. Might as well have all the fun we can. 
However, if you like this mushy sort of thing, 
why go to it. And don’t think I’m hurrying you, 
but how much longer will you need the flat?” 

She started at his words. “Of course,” she 
answered. “Forgive me, Ed; I hadn’t thought. 
I’ve grown so used to it. Why, I’ll get out right 
away; just give me a day or two. I suppose you 
have someone else in mind.” 

“Well,” he admitted, “there’s a little girl in 
my office who might move up here. I don’t know 
yet—and she doesn’t know. We’re considering 
it. You saw her, I think, the other day; she 
came up here with your bag.” 

“No,” she answered. “I think not. I was out, 
I believe. Anyway, I don’t remember her.” 

“She might be up this afternoon,” he hazarded. 
“Just to look the place over. If she comes, don’t 
preach to her and convert her to the ways of 
righteousness. Because I won’t stand for that.” 

“I won’t,” she promised, “for the very good 
reason that she wouldn’t listen. Anyone could 


246 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


have preached themselves hoarse to me two years 
ago, and I should only have laughed. So 111 
receive your friend politely and show her the 
apartment and all its advantages. 

“Thanks,” he answered. “Well, Ill be going 
along. And don't think, Mabel,” he added, ‘ that 
I’m not damned sorry to break, because I am. 
You’re the very best there is. In fact, you never 
were like the rest of the bunch; they’re tough 
birds, most of them. You never were meant for 
this sort of thing; I remember I could hardly 
believe my luck when—” f 

She raised a protesting hand. “Please don t, 
Ed,” she cried. “You mean to be kind, but you 
don’t understand how you’re hurting me. It s 
not your fault; it’s mine. Good-by.’” 

Left alone, she busied herself about the apart¬ 
ment until early afternoon, when there came a 
knock at the door. Never dreaming of the shock 
in store for her, she opened it to find herself, 
an instant later, once more seated in the living 
room, gazing wide-eyed upon the equally aston¬ 
ished Rosamund. And in their amazement, each 
thought first, not of herself but of the other. 

“So you are in Ed Hamlin’s office!” cried 
Stella. 

“So here,” cried Rosamund, “is where you live 
with Walter Randall. 

Stella stared at her, as if discrediting her ears. 
“What do you mean?” she exclaimed. “Walter 
Randall? Why, I hardly know the man.” 

“You all lie,” retorted Rosamund fiercely. 


MARY MAGDALENE 


247 


"I saw him here the other day when I came 
with your bag. ‘Miss Moore!’ I never dreamed 
it was you. Oh Stella, how could you—” and 
her overwrought nerves giving way, she burst 
into tears. 

In a flash Stella understood. “My dear child,” 
she said quickly, “calm yourself. You’re wholly 
wrong.” And in a few words she explained the 
cause of Randall’s visit to the flat. Rosamund’s 
sobs subsided. 

“The poor boy,” she cried. “And I told him 
I’d never see him again. And he’s been writing. 
And I’ve torn up his letters without opening them. 
How cruel I’ve been.” 

“Telephone him,” suggested Stella. “There’s 
a private wire in my bedroom. Here, I’ll show 
you; I wish you’d get him here. I owe him an 
apology myself.” 

A moment later Rosamund returned, radiant. 
“He’s coming,” she announced. And once more 
she repeated, “The poor boy. He really does 
love me.” 

“And don’t you care for him?” Stella asked. 

“Of course I do,” Rosamund confessed with 
spirit. “I always have. Only I thought he was 
just fooling with me and that made me angry. 
And then, just when I was ready to tell him I 
would marry him, I came up here—Mr. Hamlin 
said it was a questionable neighborhood—and 
found Walter here in what I thought was a 
strange woman’s flat. Do you wonder I was 
furious ?” 


248 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


The mention of Hamlin’s name caused Stella s 
cheeks to whiten. “But Rosamund,” she cried, 
“you weren’t really thinking—you don’t mean 
you would have come here to live? How could 
you dream of such a thing?” 

Rosamund looked abashed. “Well,” she de¬ 
fended, “I thought all men were the same. I 
thought, after Walter’s deceiving me, I’d never 
trust anyone again. And Mr. Hamlin was fair 
enough. He said he couldn’t marry me but he 
loved me, and that I could live here three months 
and he wouldn’t bother me, and he’d give me 
everything and I wouldn’t be under any obliga¬ 
tion, if I didn’t choose, and—” 

Stella broke in upon her, her tone one of horror. 
“Oh, my dear child,” she exclaimed, “this is 
providential. He’s a devil, and he always picks 
out young girls. That’s word for word what he 
told me two years ago and I believed it all. He’s 
not married and never will be. That’s just his 
game, and it sounds so plausible. It sounded so 
to me. And then, one night—” 

Emotion mastered her; then, recovering her¬ 
self, she added, “Rosamund, if Walter still wants 
you, marry him right away and leave Mr. Ham¬ 
lin’s employ at once. You’re not safe an instant 
with a man like that. You never thought,” she 
added bitterly, “you would have me for a warn¬ 
ing, did you? Well, you have. I’ve lied to you 
all at home. I’ve lived this kind of a life, and 
now when it’s too late a good man comes along 


MARY MAGDALENE 


249 


and wants to marry me. So you can see what all 
this leads to. I’ve been a downright fool. ,, 

Rosamund gazed at her as if unable to believe. 
“I can’t credit it,” she said. “You were always 
my ideal, Stella. I’ve looked up to you so. I 
thought everything you did or said was right.” 

“A fine ideal,” her sister rejoined bitterly. “And 
I’ve done another wicked thing. I made a bargain 
with Dick Meredith—we were going to try what 
was really a kind of blackmail—and now he’s 
in trouble because his brother has taken money 
that didn’t belong to him, and Dick looks to me 
to keep my bargain and help him. I can’t do it, 
of course. They say that a bad bargain is better 
broken than kept, but I hate to be a quitter, and 
I wish to heaven I’d never thought of such a 
thing. Poor Dick! If he can’t raise ten thou¬ 
sand dollars soon he says his brother will go to 
prison and their name will be everlastingly dis¬ 
graced.” 

“Ten thousand dollars,” Rosamund repeated. 
“I might be able to do something. I really think 
I could—” 

There sounded a vigorous and imperative 
knocking at the door. Stella rose hastily. “He 
hasn’t wasted any time,” she smiled. “Do make 
it up to him for all the pain you’ve caused him. 
He’s a nice, honest boy.” And she left the room. 

Randall’s face, as he entered, beamed like that 
of a man who had inherited a fortune. But 
Rosamund stayed his impulsive advance. “Just 
a minute, Walter,” she said. “There are three 


250 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


things we must settle. First, accept my profound 
apologies for the way I’ve acted. I was too hasty, 
but you can imagine how I felt. I’m terribly 
sorry. Will you forgive me?” 

Randall’s mute gesture was assent enough, 
and she continued, “Now, I’m going to do a 
terrible thing; I’m going to risk all our happiness; 
I’m going to risk your good opinion of me. 
You’ll think that I’m mercenary; that I’m an 
adventuress. You’ll think all kinds of horrid 
things, but I’m going to risk it, just the same.” 

“Fire away,” he said. 

“Then would you,” she asked, “give me ten 
thousand dollars? I can’t explain, but it’s not 
for myself. It’s for a good purpose. I think I 
can pay it back in a week, but I won’t promise. 
Could you spare it, and would you spare it? 

For answer, Randall drew a check book from 
one pocket, a fountain pen from another, and a 
half minute later had handed her the check. “Just 
a second,” she cried, and hastened to her sister 
in the latter’s bedroom. “Take this,” she said, 
“and get it to Dick today. I know that Harvard 
is going to win that football game. Mr. Hamlin 
is the shrewdest gambler I ever saw; he almost 
never loses, and he’s bet thousand* against Yale. 
Tell Dick this is from a friend; that he is to bet 
it on Harvard, and if Harvard wins he can keep 
the winnings for himself. If that won’t make 
him play the game of his life, then nothing will. 
Now I must go back to Walter.” 

She re-ente-red the living room and walked up 


MARY MAGDALENE 


251 


to the impatient Randall. “Walter,” she said, 
“I don’t think I’ve given you much reason to 
think well of me so far, but—do you still want to 
marry me?” 

For answer, Randall folded her in his arms. 
“You know,” he whispered, “all I’ve told you 
before. It’s still the same. It always will be the 
same. There never will be any girl but you.” 

She yielded to his embrace, and her arms stole 
around his neck, her face upraised to his. “Then 
I’ll marry you, dear,” she murmured, “and I’ll 
make you the best wife in the world, and I’ll love 
you to death. Does that please you?” A moment 
later she was rearranging her disordered hair. 
“At the Cape,” she reproved him, “you only took 
one.” 

“But that one!” he cried. “It’s been a long 
time to live on that phantom memory. Rosa¬ 
mund, if you never saw a happy man before in 
your life, take a look at me now. I might just 
as well die and be done with it; I’ll never know 
a moment like this again.” 

“Don’t die quite yet, please,” she urged. “I 
was just going to ask you to take me to The 
Victorian and treat me to a dinner and dance 
twenty consecutive dances with me. So if that 
appeals to you, come on!” 

Stella, left alone, entered the deserted living 
room. “Today,” she thought, “is like a battle. 
All these interviews; all these changes in all 
our lives. And tonight will be the worst of all. 
My eyes are red; I look like a sight. Perhaps 


252 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


it’s just as well. He may think I’m so homely 
that he won’t propose after all.” 

But there was nothing in Frank Endicott’s 
ardent gaze, some hours later, save love and 
admiration. And the words he uttered were 
convincing in their sincerity. “Stella,” he began, 
“you know what I’m going to say. I never 
thought of myself as a marrying man, but since 
I’ve known you my whole life is changed. I ve 
seen you almost every day—I didn t realize till 
you went away how dreary life was without you. 
Now I know; I never want to be without you 
again. I love and adore you, Stella; will you 
be my wife?” 

The moment had come; no one but she herself 
could have told how she longed to say “Yes.” 
Yet honor forbade, and after a moment’s struggle 
she faltered, “I’m afraid—I don’t believe—I can.” 

A look almost of horror came over his face. 
“You don’t mean that,” he cried. “Why, Stella, 
I thought you cared. You mean you don’t love 
me?” 

“Oh, it’s not that, Frank,” she half sobbed in 
answer. “I do care for you; I couldn’t love you 
more. But I mustn’t marry you. I’m not— 
not fit to marry a decent man.” 

He sat for a moment as if stunned. “Stella!” 
he gasped, a world of meaning in the single word. 
“You! Why, you’re raving. You’re everything 
that’s good and pure. Don’t torment me like 
this.” 

“But I must,” she insisted. “You don’t know 


MARY MAGDALENE 


253 


what it’s costing me, Frank, but I must tell the 
truth. I started out deliberately to make you 
care for me. I meant to marry you for your 
money. And—I had no right; I’ve been a kept 
woman for two years. It’s all over with. When 
I found I cared for you, I broke with him. I’ll 
never sin again. I suppose now it’s too late, but 
anyway I’m telling you the truth. I’ve wronged 
you, Frank, and this is my reward.” 

Silence fell. For some moments Stella did not 
dare glance at the man, and when she did she 
could have wept at the look upon his face—a 
look not of anger, but of one grown suddenly 
old, with all the life and joy in him crushed dead. 
He rose uncertainly to his feet, and at the sight 
the full bitterness of her loss smote her like 
a blow. “Frank,” she cried desperately, “it’s 
not as bad as you think. I never meant to do it. 
It all happened one night—I took too much wine 
—I didn’t think—” 

“Please,” he interrupted, and the one word 
stopped her wild appeal. After a moment he re¬ 
sumed, his voice scarcely under control, “I can’t 
realize it yet. I thought this was to be the 
happiest day of my life; I had such hopes, such 
dreams, such plans. I would have trusted you 
with my life. And all the time you were deceiv¬ 
ing me—” 

Like an old man he made his way out into the 
hall and down the stairs; nor did she rise to stop 
him, or alter her position when she heard the 
door close. But when she finally realized that 


254 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


he had gone and that she was alone, she cast her¬ 
self down upon the lounge, and with her face 
buried in the cushions, gave herself up to an out¬ 
burst of tears. How long she lay there she 
could not tell. Consciousness itself seemed to 
have left her. Then, raising her head she lis¬ 
tened, thinking perhaps to hear his returning 
footstep on the stairs. But no sound broke the 
silence, and a wave of sorrow and bitterest regret 
engulfed her, until there came to her at last the 
first faint vestige of comfort, the light transcend¬ 
ing earthly things, the vision of love not human 
but divine. And now, for perhaps the first time 
in her life, she knew that she had, though all too 
late for her own happiness, struck a blow for the 
right; that she had, though only in atonement for 
her sin, done what she could. And gropingly, 
through despair and loneliness, she raised her 
arms in supplication. No words would come; hers 
was exhaustion of body and mind and spirit; but 
silently and humbly she called upon the name 
of God. 


XVI 


A Poet’s Song 

It was eight o’clock on Friday evening. Joe 
Leslie sat in his room, studying with troubled 
face the one book on earth which really interested 
him, a slender volume, morocco bound, in which 
were recorded his wagers on various events of 
interest to the sporting world. From the floor 
below ascended the voice of Rosamund, singing 
as she washed the supper dishes, and he frowned 
impatiently even at this trifling interruption of 
his thoughts. Around the room were scattered 
half-a-dozen evening papers, their sporting pages 
prominently displayed, bearing the news that 
Lick Meredith had been injured in a scrimmage 
and might not be able to start the game against 
Yale. 

“Perfect hell,” Joe reflected. “Two weeks ago 
Princeton trims Harvard seven to three; one week 
ago Princeton and Yale fight it out to a scoreless 
tie. That makes this Harvard-Yale scrap to¬ 
morrow a ten to nine and pick ’em proposition. 
That is, of course, with Meredith in the game. 
But if he doesn’t start it’s going to raise the 
devil. It’s even money now, we’ll call it. With¬ 
out him it will be a cinch for Yale. The odds 
will shift to about ten to six, with everybody 


256 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


trying to hedge at once. It will be one of those 
lovely games where you can’t possibly win, and 
you’ll be damned lucky to break even. I won¬ 
der—” 

Suddenly, upon his musings, intruded the ring¬ 
ing of the telephone. He rose and removed the 
receiver from its hook, question and answer fol¬ 
lowing each other in quick succession. 

“Hello, Joe. Callahan talking. What’s all this 
about Meredith? Isn’t he going to play?” 

“Don’t know, Sport; wish I did.” 

“Well, you want to find out. Right away, too. 
I’m here at Ryan’s. You get me the story inside 
of an hour and get it straight. See?” 

“I can’t do it, Sport. I’m not an insider; they 
don’t tell me things. How do you suppose I 
could find out?” 

The voice over the wire grew coldly menacing. 
“Cut it, Joe; that talk don’t go with me. You 
know where you get off on that Gaffney job; 
you haven’t got a prayer. Now you dig up 
this stuff on Meredith and get it to me straight 
or there’ll be trouble. Get a hustle on. Good-by.” 

Joe Leslie’s face, as he hung up the receiver, 
was dark with wrath. “Damn him,” he mur¬ 
mured, “he talks to me as if I were a yellow dog. 
And he’s get me dead to rights, too. I can’t 
find out, though; I don’t stand in with that col¬ 
lege gang. What the devil am I going to do?” 

He sat motionless, trying hard to think. In the 
silence the sound of Rosamund’s singing came 
once more to his ears. Suddenly his face cleared. 


A POET’S SONG 


257 


“By God!” he cried under his breath. “Why 
didn’t I remember? That’s the answer. Girls 
are some use, after all.” 

He jerked open the door of his room and ran 
hastily down the stairs. His sister stood by the 
sink, mop in hand, rapidly washing and rinsing 
the piled-up heap of crockery, glass and silver¬ 
ware. “Quit your work, kid,” he commanded, 
“and take a run with me over to the Square. 
There’s a story in the papers that Meredith’s hurt 
and can’t play. I want to find out if it’s true.” 

She looked at him calmly. From childhood, 
brother and sister had never been on really 
friendly terms. And now, as she continued 
mechanically with her work, she answered, “Why 
don’t you go yourself? What do you ask me for? 
It’s none of my affair.” 

In desperation, Joe changed his tone from at¬ 
tempted coercion to one of entreaty. “I know 
it’s not,” he replied. “I’m asking you as a favor, 
Rosamund. It would take too long to tell you 
the whole story now, but it’s mighty important 
for me to find out the truth about Meredith and 
to find out right away. If I don’t I’m going to 
get into lots of trouble. I wouldn’t bother you 
if I could help it, Rosamund, but I haven’t the 
nerve to put it through myself. Everyone knows 
I’m a gambler, and I’m not exactly what you 
would call popular down around the field. But 
this Randall guy who rooms with Meredith is 
dead gone on you. He’ll tell you anything you 
want to know. Come on now, that’s a good kid. 


258 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


It won’t take ten minutes to find out and I won t 
forget it. I’ll do you a good turn first chance 
I get.” 

His unusual humility impressed her, but she 
answered, “There’s no use in going now, because 
Walter isn’t there. His uncle is ill, and he’s gone 
to spend the night with him; I don’t know where 
it is, either; away off in the country somewhere. 
Why don’t you telephone Dick Meredith? He 
would probably tell you how he is if you use my 
name.” 

“I did telephone him,” Joe answered impatient¬ 
ly. “Not an hour ago. I was going to bluff I 
was a sporting editor of The Telegraph. , And 
I couldn’t get him; line out of order. That’s the 
trouble with the telephone. It works fine when 
you’re in no hurry, and the minute you want 
anyone badly, there’s a busy line, or an accident, 
or some other damn thing. I never knew it to 
fail.” He paused a moment; then added abruptly, 
“Look here, Rosamund, you’ve got to see Mere¬ 
dith himself. You know him well enough; he 
used to be around here all the time when Dorothy 
was home. Come on now; help me out.” 

Rosamund, having completed the washing of 
the dishes, abandoned her mop for a towel and 
began drying them deftly. “Do have some sense, 
Joe,” she replied. “A girl can’t go to a student’s 
room like that; you know it as well as I do.” 

Leslie swore savagely. “Look here, you don’t 
get this thing at all. I tell you it’s damned im¬ 
portant to me, and if you’re going to be nasty 


A POET’S SONG 


259 


about it, then I’ll be nasty too. I’m not a fool; 
I ve got eyes-and I’ve got ears. And between 
you and me, I know mighty well why Dorothy 
went away. Her trouble was somewhere else 
beside her lungs. So you do as I say and do it 
quick, or I’ll go to Meredith and tell him all I 

kn °7 J ' ,., And 1 know J’ ust how mu ch Dorothy 
would like that. Stop fooling with those dishes 
now, and come along.” 

He had shot his last shaft, but to his infinite 
relief, it went home. The color left Rosamund’s 
cheeks and after one startled glance at him she 
stopped her work and without a word began 
putting on her hat and coat, only pausing to 
exclaim witheringly, “You’re a fine lot, Joe; a 
sneak and an eavesdropper and a blackmailer 
1 m proud of you.” 

Joe, however, was too much elated at her 
acquiescence to care anything for mere hard 
wor s. Ah, don t get gay,” he muttered, and 
rapidly and in silence they left the house and 
made their way down the street toward the 
bquare. 


At the entrance to Meredith’s dormitory Toe 
paused “Now then,” he said, “I’ll wait around 
here till you come back. He’s on the second 
floor, room number seven. Just find out how he 
is and whether he’s surely going to play, and 
then beat it back here again. Come on now, a 
little speed. 


The girl instinctively drew back. “Oh I can’t 
Joe,” she whispered. “You don’t understand! 


260 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


It’s not right His room may be filled with boys. 
What sort of a figure would I cut? You ought 
to think more of your sister than that.’ 

The gambler had to acknowledge the force of 
her words in spite of himself. Well, all right, 
he growled. “Ell go up with you till we see 
what’s doing. But you needn’t be scared. It’s 
the night before the game; he’ll surely be alone.” 

Like two guilty conspirators they stole up the 
bare stairway. Silence reigned in the hall, but the 
door to number seven was ajar and a flickering 
gas jet revealed a page of theme paper pinned to 
the panel, on which was scrawled, “Back right 
away. R. M.” 

Leslie drew a long breath of relief. “That s 
good,” he whispered in a triumphant undertone. 
“He can’t be badly hurt or he wouldn’t leave his 
room. Still, we’d better make sure. You go in 
and wait for him and I’ll beat it.” And to the 
word he suited the action. 

The girl grasped desperately at his arm. 
“Please, Joe,” she begged, “this is just as bad. 
He may not come back alone. Suppose a crowd 
of boys come with him and find me waiting 
there. What will they think? And how shall 
I feel?” 

He thrust off her detaining hand. “Don’t be 
a fool,” he snapped. “These boys aren’t muckers. 
You can say a lot of things against Harvard 
guys, but most of them are pretty apt to be 
gentlemen. Just tell your story, find out how he 
is, and make your getaway. There’s nothing to 


A POET’S SONG 


261 


it at all.” And with the words he passed quickly 
down the stairway, while the girl, nerving herself 
for the ordeal, slipped through the doorway of 
number seven and seated herself at the study 
table. She sat listening intently, hands clasped 
tightly together, body poised like that of a bird 
about to take wing. 

Presently, as no sound broke the stillness, she 
glanced half mechanically about her. The light 
in the study, like that in the hallway, was dim, 
but she could distinguish the usual furnishings 
of a college room: the group pictures, the bright- 
hued cushions, the silver cups on the mantel, 
trophies of Meredith’s muscle. Two huge book¬ 
cases filled to overflowing were clearly the prop¬ 
erty of Randall and not of his more athletic 
roommate. 

Thus she sat motionless inspecting her new 
surroundings, until presently the tread of foot¬ 
steps came to her ear, and the next moment she 
heard the very sound she had been dreading, the 
indistinct murmur of voices. Panic-striken, she 
started swiftly to her feet and darted toward the 
door leading into the hall; then, realizing that 
escape in that direction was cut off, she wheeled 
and making directly for the door leading into 
one of the bedrooms, entered and closed it be¬ 
hind her just in the nick of time. 

There followed the banging of the outer door, 
and then Meredith’s voice, “What changed your 
plans, Wally. Thought yo‘u weren’t coming 
back.” And Randall’s answer, “Oh, the old gen- 


262 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


tleman’s much better; it was a false alarm. But 
how about you, Dick? What’s all this talk about 
your ankle?” 

“All rot,” Meredith answered. “Just news¬ 
paper stuff. I did twist it and Doc Earle is 
coming to strap it—he ought to be here now— 
but it’s all right. I’m as fit as possible.” 

“That’s good,” Randall answered heartily. “I 
was scared when I read the headlines. And you’re 
still confident, I suppose, that Harvard’s going 
to win?” 

“Nothing to it,” was the reply. “We couldn’t 
play the terrible football we showed against 
Princeton again if we tried. No, Wally, the Yale 
game is on ice.” 

Randall regarded him thoughtfully. “I’m afraid, 
Dick,” he objected, “that you’re such a tremen¬ 
dous individualist you look at everything from 
your own standpoint and forget all about the 
other fellow. I wish I felt as confident as you 
do, but I can’t see that it’s any cinch. Yale has 
a mighty good team.” 

“Of course they’re good,” Meredith answered 
impatiently. “No doubt of it at all. But I know 
their style of play, and I know Princeton’s, and 
I know our own, and Yale is going to be fifty 
per cent easier for our attack than Princeton 
was. Just wait till tomorrow and you’ll see.” 

“Well, you ought to know,” Randall assented, 
though still somewhat doubtfully. “And thank 
goodness you’re not really hurt. Why, in at the 
Club I heard a man quote the odds on the game 


A POET’S SONG 


263 


as even money Harvard, but with Meredith out 
two to one Yale. Some compliment to you, 
Dick.” 

“I don’t deserve it,” said Meredith soberly, 
“after that rotten fumble at Princeton. Well, 
I’ll make up for it tomorrow; the only way I’ll 
leave that game is in an ambulance.” 

“Oh, let’s hope it won’t be as bad as that,” 
laughed Randall. “Well, Dick, I’m off for the 
library; I’m working on another anthology— 
poems about children. And that reminds me— 
there’s one I must read to you. It’s positively a 
wonder. Wait till I find the book.” 

There followed a pause; then presently Rosa¬ 
mund heard Randall’s voice again, “Now where 
on earth is that book? I left it right here on the 
table.” And Meredith’s answer, “Did it have a 
blue cover? Middleby? Middlebrook? Some¬ 
thing like that—” 

“Middleton,” Randall corrected. “Richard 
Middleton. Yes, that’s the book. What became 
of it?” 

“Ed Curtis swiped it,” rejoined Meredith. 
“Started reading it here after lunch, and said it 
was bully and lugged it off with him.” 

“Just like his nerve,” grumbled Randall, “and 
I’ve got to have it tonight. Well, I’ll recapture 
it. Wait a minute; I’ll be right back.” 

“All right,” agreed Meredith, “and Wally, on 
your way ask Jim Davis to step in here. He’s in 
Austin’s room, across the hall.” 

Almost simultaneously with Randall’s depar- 


264 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


ture, Rosamund heard the booming bass of the 
hastily summoned Jim. “Hi there, Dicky,” was 
his jovial greeting, “what seems to be biting 
you ?” 

“Look here, Jim,” Meredith answered, “I un¬ 
derstand you’ve bet like the devil on this game 
tomorrow.” 

“Sure thing,” was the response. “And I’m not 
alone in my glory, either; the whole gang have 
gone down in their pockets as deep as they dare. 
It really looks like a cinch, as long as we retain 
the services of one R. Meredith in the backfield. 
In other words, Dicky, we’re due for one grand 
little killing. Unless the Elis have bought return 
tickets there’s going to be a string of them miles 
long walking the tracks to New Haven.” 

“I hope so,” was Meredith’s grim reply. “What 
are the odds now?” 

“Even money still. I’ve heard there’s some at 
ten to nine on Yale; I suppose this talk about 
your ankle has given ’em courage. But as a 
cold business proposition I guess even money 
covers it.” 

“And you can get up all you want?” queried 
Meredith. 

“Sure. Bet a million if you want to.” 

“Then I wish you’d get this up for me. I 
needn’t tell you it’s not for myself; it’s for a 
friend. If you’ll do it, I’ll be much obliged.” 

Evidently the size of the check made no im¬ 
pression on the volatile Bill. “Sure thing,” he 
answered. “I was going in town anyway. I’ll 


A POET’S SONG 


265 


have it on for you inside of half an hour. Nine 
to ten if I can find it; even money anyway. So 
^long, Dicky; sweet dreams.” And the door 
banged clamorously as the sporting visitor took 
his departure. 

The sound brought Rosamund back to con¬ 
sciousness of her surroundings. Tired of her en¬ 
forced captivity, she was on the point of bring¬ 
ing it to an end; then, little dreaming that her 
decision was to alter the course of three lives, she 
thought of the possible misconstruction Randall 
might place upon her presence in the room at 
night, and decided to stay where she was until he 
had come and gone again. Nor had she long to 
wait, for scarcely a minute later she heard Mere¬ 
dith’s voice, “Well, did you get it?” and Randall’s 
reply, “Sure. The old pirate was reading it, but 
I made him come across. Now listen, Dick, 
because this is really marvelous; I don’t know 
when I’ve read anything that has taken hold of 
me like this poem.” 

There was a brief silence; then simply, without 
affectation, but with an earnestness which proved 
his utter sincerity, Randall began, To a Dead Child: 

“Man proposes, God in His time disposes, 

And so I wandered up to where you lay, 

A little rose among the little roses, 

And no more dead than they. 

It seemed your childish feet were tried of straying, 
You did not greet me from your flower-strewn bed 
Yet still I know that you were only playing— 
Playing at being dead. 


266 DAUGHTERS OF EVE 

I might have thought that you were really sleeping, 
So quiet lay your eyelids to the sky, 

So still your hair, but surely you were peeping, 

And so I did not cry. 

God knows, and in His proper time disposes, 

And so I smiled and gently called your name, 
Added my rose to your sweet heap of roses, 

And left you to your game.’ ” 

There followed a silence more eloquent than 
words until Rosamund, her eyes moist with tears, 
heard Meredith’s low, “Wally, that’s wonderful.” 
There was no further sound until Randall, as if 
rousing himself from a stupor, said, Well, I 
must go to the library,” and Rosamund realized 
that at last she was free to leave her hiding- 
place. Still, with hand on the latch, she stood 
motionless, her soul stirred to its depths by the 
music and the magic of the poet’s song. On one 
side of the scale lay her given word, the fate of 
the football game, the worldly fortunes of Dick 
and Dorothy; on the other the silent, pitiful plea 
for justice to an unborn child. Then, in a light¬ 
ning flash of intuition, her decision was made. She 
threw open the door of the bedroom and stepped 
out into the study. Meredith was seated at the 
table in the centre of the room, his back toward 
her, and so deeply engrossed in thought that he 
paid no heed to her approach. With face white 
as death but with resolve written in its every 
line, she came nearer. “Dick,” she said. 


XVII 


Puppets of Fate 

Like lightning, Meredith sprang to his feet. 
“Rosamund!” he cried incredulously. “Where on 
earth did you come from?” 

The girl sank wearily into the nearest chair. 
“I came,” she answered, “to ask about your in¬ 
jury. My brother made me. When I heard you 
coming and knew that you weren’t alone, I hid in 
the bedroom. Never mind that now. There’s 
something I must tell you, Dick; something 
you’ve got to know. They’ve lied to you—de¬ 
ceived you—Dorothy and Doctor Earle. They 
thought they were acting for the best. Dorothy 
isn’t out in Arizona—never has been—there’s 
nothing the matter with her lungs. She’s not 
far from here now. And—she’s going to have a 
baby, Dick—your child. It’s very near the time.” 

Meredith stood gazing at her in absolute 
silence; only a sudden tightening of the muscles 
of his mouth and a quick grasp at the table for 
support followed the impact of her words. In his 
brain the first sharp shock of blank amazement 
instantly gave place to the elemental pride of 
fatherhood; then joy in turn yielded to anguish 
as he realized, with horror, the situation’s sinister 
significance. A wave of wrath engulfed him, and 
267 


268 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


his face darkened as he cried, “For God s sake, 
Rosamund, why wasn’t I told? What were they 
thinking of? Why didn’t they—” 

A sharp knock interrupted him; simultaneously 
the door swung open and Prescott Earle came 
hurriedly into the room. He betrayed no sign 
of surprise at the scene discovered before him, 
and though his eyes passed swiftly from Dick’s 
face to Rosamund’s, the slightest possible droop 
of his eyelids was the only indication of the 
emotion he might have felt. Nor did he start 
when Meredith, conventionally enough, perform¬ 
ed the ceremony of introduction, and his first 
remark, after he had bowed formally to the girl, 
was purely professional. “Well, how is the 
ankle ?” he asked. 

Meredith’s glance was openly hostile. “Oh, 
damn the ankle,” he answered grimly, and would 
have proceeded to give his wrath free rein if 
Rosamund had not quickly interposed, “I’ve told 
him, Doctor Earle. You wouldn’t understand, I 
suppose, but I had to. I couldn’t help it.’’ 

The physician remained outwardly calm; the 
look that he gave the girl seemed speculative 
merely. Meredith, on the other hand, was plainly 
beside himself; his face, surcharged with passion, 
was flushed to a dull, angry red. “So you’ve 
made a fool of me,” he began thickly, and only 
with difficulty managing to keep his voice under 
control. “Lied to me! You must be proud of 
yourself. You’ve done a fine job. But there’s 
time yet, thank God! There are just two things 


PUPPETS OF FATE 


269 


you can tell me. The first is where I’ll find 
Dorothy; the second is the name of the nearest 
minister. I’ll get started right away.” 

Prescott Earle, still unruffled, turned to Rosa¬ 
mund. “If you have no further confidences to 
communicate,” he suggested with bland irony, 
and the words, coupled with a shrill, impatient 
whistle from the street below, recalled her 
brother to the girl’s mind. She turned to Mere¬ 
dith. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry, I mean, 
that I didn’t speak before. I thought I owed it 
to Dorothy to keep silence, but I was wrong. I 
should have told you.” 

Meredith stepped forward and took her ex¬ 
tended hand. “I wish you had,” he answered, 
“but you have my warmest thanks for speaking 
now. I shan’t forget it. Thank you, Rosamund, 
and good-by.” 

The door closed behind her, and Prescott 
Earle seated himself with deliberation. “Now, 
Dick,” he said quietly, “keep cool. You think I 
haven’t treated you fairly, but I have, Dorothy 
Morrison came to consult me professionally; all 
that she told me was in confidence which I 
couldn’t violate. All I could do was advise her.” 

Meredith’s expression remained unchanged. 
“Yes,” he responded bitterly, “and it was wonder¬ 
ful advice, wasn’t it? You hadn’t the decency to 
get her to tell me the truth.” 

“Keep cool,” the doctor reiterated. “For one 
thing, the girl’s mind was absolutely made up; 
no one in the world could have altered it. For 


270 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


another thing, I believe she was absolutely right.” 

Meredith’s eyes blazed. “You call yourself a 
man?” he demanded. “And you would have me 
the father of a—God! I won’t say it—my own 
flesh and blood!” 

For the first time Prescott Earle seemed to 
show a trace of sympathy. “I’m sorry, Dick,” 
he said. “I know how you’re feeling; it’s a facer 
and no mistake. But when you go off the handle 
like this and think that Dorothy hasn’t treated 
you fairly—that I haven’t treated you fairly— 
then I must object. The girl worships you, 
Dick; you ought to realize how lucky you are to 
have anyone care as she cares for you. I went 
over everything with her—all the pros and all 
the cons—and I reached the conclusion that it 
was too late to retrieve the situation. Don’t you 
see the point? You made your blunder nine 
months ago; that was both the beginning and 
the end. Anything you might try to do after 
that to save your child’s name could only make 
things worse.” 

“I don’t see it,” Meredith retorted. “To marry 
before your child is born is one thing; to marry 
afterwards is another. There’s the width of the 
poles between them.” 

“In a sense, yes,” acknowledged Earle, “but 
people don’t look at these things from that view- 
point. If you had married Dorothy five months 
ago the story would surely have leaked out. 
Your lives would have been ruined—” 

At the words Meredith lost what little con- 


PUPPETS OF FATE 


271 


trol he had managed to retain. “Damn it, Doc¬ 
tor,” he cried, “you make me tired; you and your 
miserable narrow-minded ideas. 'Lives ruined’; 
perhaps so, in the eyes of a few hundred people 
who call themselves ‘Society.’ But it would have 
been the right thing—the only possible repara¬ 
tion—and I’ll make it now, tonight. Come on; 
we’re losing time. Tell me where Dorothy is. 
I’ll hire a machine, and the game and the world 
and all the fools in it can go straight to hell, 
for all I care.” 

He spoke rapidly, his cheeks still unnaturally 
flushed, and the doctor, observing him, for the 
first time showed signs of losing his studied 
calm. “That fool of a girl,” he said sharply, 
“ought to have her tongue cut out. You show 
all the signs of a man in a raging fever. Great 
preparation for tomorrow’s game.” 

Meredith’s laugh had no mirth in it. “I tell 
you I won’t start the game,” he retorted. “This 
seems to be a case of touch and go. If the time 
is as short as Rosamund says, I can’t afford to 
wait. And if I marry her tonight, then of course 
I’ll be disqualified for tomorrow.” 

Prescott Earle leaned quickly forward; his air 
of detachment dropped from him like a cloak, 
and he spoke with deadly earnestness. 

“Look here, Dick,” he declared, “you’ll play 
that game. It’s too late to pull out now. In 
the first place, your playing means the difference 
between probable victory and certain defeat. In 
the second place, you’re not an individual who 


272 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


can do as he pleases; until this game is over, 
you’re a member of a team going into a contest 
with the prestige of your college at stake. We ve 
got to win; that’s all there is to it. In the third 
place, you’ve got to consider the money that’s 
been wagered—” Meredith started at the words— 
“hundreds and thousands of dollars. You can t 
throw these people down now—it would be as 
bad as robbing them. And in the fourth place, 
by a forced marriage tonight, you’ll be branding 
yourself, branding the girl you love, branding 
your own child—deliberately seeking, for all three 
of you, contempt and ridicule for the rest of your 
lives. After the game is over, Dick, you’re your 
own master; you can be as much of a fool as you 
please; but until it’s over, you owe a debt to 
your college, and by God, it’s got to be paid.” 

There followed silence. Meredith sat staring 
straight before him, hands clenched, brows low¬ 
ered. Myriads of thoughts flashed through his 
brain, among them the memory of the money 
wagered to save his brother’s name. The phy¬ 
sician, regarding him narrowly, hastened to fol¬ 
low up his advantage. “And I’ll promise you 
this, Dick,” he added. “If you’re still of the 
same mind in the morning, I’ll have everything 
ready. I’ll get word to Dorothy; I’ll have min¬ 
ister and motor both on hand; and the instant 
the game is over we’ll make the run to where 
Dorothy is staying, and the preacher will tie the 
knot in five minutes. Of course, I shall still con¬ 
sider you’re being a fool, but that’s your own—” 


PUPPETS OF FATE 


273 


Meredith interrupted him. “Will there be 
time?” he asked curtly. 

Earle considered, then responded, “Yes, almost 
certainly. Humanly speaking, she’s bound to 
be confined within the next day or two. But I 
think I may pledge my professional word that 
if we reach there according to this plan, we’ll 
be in time.” 

Meredith pondered long and earnestly; then 
suddenly glanced up. “All right, it’s a go,” he 
said, but as the doctor was about to speak, he 
raised his hand. “Just a minute,” he commanded. 
“You give me your word that there will be no 
slip? You’ll have the motor ready; you’ll be 
at my side the instant the game is over; you’ll 
have a big coat to bundle me up in. You get 
me? There’s to be no excuse for anything going 
wrong. You are to guarantee these things abso¬ 
lutely.” 

“Absolutely,” Earle replied with emphasis. 
“There will be no slips. We’ll be in time.” 

Meredith looked at him with an expression 
hard to fathom. “If we’re not,” he said at 
length, “it strikes me you’ll have a good deal to 
answer for. I don’t think I’d care to be in your 
shoes.” 

Earle allowed himself a gesture of dissent. “I 
have done,” he answered doggedly, “what I 
thought was right. I still think I am right. Now 
let’s get back to the game. For the next eighteen 
hours you’ve got to think of that and nothing 
else. So let’s begin by taking a look at that 
ankle.” 


XVIII 


Man Proposes 

A bright sun and a bracing wind had ushered in 
that great biennial, the fateful day when the 
sturdy athletes from New Haven, with white 
“Y”s on sweaters of blue, advance upon the 
Stadium to test the mettle of their foemen—the 
brawny sons of Harvard, crimson clad. 

As the day wore on, each familiar scene of the 
great pageant was re-enacted. Once more the 
army of motors had discharged their freight 
and were parked in countless hundreds outside 
the enclosure; once again the “tube” and the 
clanging street cars had borne their thronging, 
eager hundreds to the Square; once more the 
huge procession had surged steadily over the 
bridge, swept through the Stadium gates and 
scattered to seats, a holiday crowd rejoicing alike 
in the approaching contest and in the warmth 
of the sunlight and the perfect beauty of the 
afternoon. 

Thus, little by little, the gray background of 
the huge horseshoe had vanished, giving place to 
a bloom of color as rich and splendid as the 
gorgeous foliage of the Autumn woods. And 
then at last, amid the cheering and the shouting 
and the blaring brasses of the bands, both teams 
274 


MAN PROPOSES 


275 


had raced onto the field, had run through their 
signals with beautiful, machine-like precision, and 
finally had taken their stations for that one 
nerve-racking, soul-stirring, indescribable instant 
of the kick-off, when the cleated foot of the Yale 
captain had crashed against the leather of the 
pigskin, and the first half was on. 

And what a first half it had been! A half of 
straight, clean football, between two teams 
matched to a hair’s breath in courage, strength 
and skill. For the expert, the lover of football 
strategy, the plotter of plays, no finer struggle 
could have been imagined, but to the average 
spectator it was perhaps a trifle disappointing, a 
bit monotonous, too much like a “pitchers’ bat¬ 
tle” on the diamond, where outs are many and 
hits are few. The attack, on both sides, was 
fierce enough, but completely overshadowed by 
the defense with which it was met. Two lines 
of adamant; a secondary defense ever on the 
alert, lightning fast, and everlastingly in the 
right spot at the right time. And when the first 
two periods were ended and the intermission 
came, both teams hurried from the field without 
either goal line having been seriously threatened. 
In the locker building, wild-eyed coaches, run¬ 
ning true to form, in language so picturesquely 
hot that it seared and blistered where it fell, 
were exhorting, encouraging, threatening, be¬ 
seeching, using every trick and turn of oratory, 
every imaginable variety of appeal, to spur on 
their warriors for a score. 


276 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


In the Harvard dressing-room, Prescott Earle 
sat down for a moment by Meredith’s side, not¬ 
ing with close scrutiny and not wholly with satis¬ 
faction, the appearance of the fullback. As games 
go, and considering the perfect playing condi¬ 
tions, no member of the team should have been 
the least off color, yet Meredith sat hunched in 
a corner, eyes drooped, mouth relaxed, head sag¬ 
ging wearily, and with an unusual pallor show¬ 
ing through the bronze of his skin. “How goes 
it?” the doctor asked. “All right?” 

Meredith half opened his eyes and slightly 
raised his head. “Sure,” he answered mechan¬ 
ically, “we’re going to win.” And then, with a 
sudden start like that of a man awakening to 
consciousness, he added quickly, “You haven’t 
forgotten? Everything is ready?” 

“Absolutely,” Earle replied, “No chance of a 
slip-up. I telephoned half an hour ago. Every¬ 
thing is all right. Just keep your mind on the 
game, Dick. We’ve got to score.” 

Meredith relapsed into his former attitude. 
“We’ll score,” he repeated, but still in a tone 
curiously detached and lifeless. “We’ve got to 
score. They have a good line, but we’ll get ’em 
yet. You watch out and you’ll see.” 

Five minutes later the battle was on again, the 
third period practically a reproduction of the 
first two. Yet when the final period opened, still 
without the sign of a score, both elevens began 
to resort to plays increasingly daring in character 
—forwards, end runs, anything which might reg- 


MAN PROPOSES 


277 


ister a decisive gain. Just once, indeed, midway 
in the period, Yale threatened, carrying the ball 
to a point where a long drop kick or placement 
became at least a possibility. But gains had 
been steady; they elected to continue to rush 
the ball, and at length lost it, though within 
a scant half yard of a first down. Immediately 
a long punt sent the ball well back into their 
own territory, and for the moment, at least, the 
danger was past. And thus the play see-sawed, 
until the time shortened so patently that impa¬ 
tient spectators had already begun to leave their 
seats and to throng the mouths of the exits lead¬ 
ing from the field, when, in the twinkling of an 
eye, came the long-delayed “break” in the for¬ 
tunes of the game. Meredith, aided by magnifi¬ 
cent interference, accomplished the feat so sel¬ 
dom witnessed in modern football, successfully 
circling the Yale right end, and although thrown 
heavily at last, it was with the goal line of the 
enemy only ten yards away. 

Like fire racing through stubble, the stands 
exploded into uproar. Spectacular enough at any 
time, against the somewhat drab background of 
this game of bucking the line Meredith’s run 
stood forth resplendent. And at once, oblivious 
to everything but the task before them, the men 
in crimson began their struggle to batter down 
the bulwark of the Yale line. A three yard gain! 
Then two more! Another three! The tumult 
from the stands became overwhelming, cyclonic. 
Meredith, rising slowly to his feet, was dimly 


278 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


conscious of a feeling of irritation, an impression 
that something had gone vaguely wrong. The 
field, figures in blue, figures in red, swam mistily 
before his eyes. Someone near him was shouting 
at him, but the words, though he could hear them, 
conveyed no meaning. Impatiently he jerked off 
his headguard and hurled it toward the sidelines, 
shaking his head as if to clear his brain. Then, 
with a mighty effort of will, he concentrated every 
atom of consciousness that was left him upon the 
game. To his intense relief, as if in answer to 
his unspoken prayer, the shadows cleared and 
only just in time. He had one instant to take in 
the scene, the goal post towering to the left, the 
Blue line bracing itself for the final onslaught; 
then came the sharp snapping signals that told 
him he must carry the ball on a skin-tackle play. 
A sensation of overmastering power obsessed 
him; a feeling that nothing could stand before 
him, that he could sweep away opposition like a 
giant among pygmies. 

The play followed, perfectly balanced, faultless¬ 
ly executed. On, on, on, he struggled and fought; 
now the white line was nearing him, now it lay 
beneath him; and now, with the ball clutched 
tightly to his breast, though hurled, even at the 
final instant, terrifically to the left, he was over 
for a touchdown. And then, in the very moment 
of triumph, a mighty, splintering crash—a shower 
of crackling sparks, darting, flashing, floating, 
falling—then blackness, silence, rest. 

From the sidelines Prescott Earle, oblivious to 


MAN PROPOSES 


279 


the roar of victory, had stood watching the final 
charge. Seeing all his players rise but one, and 
that one stretched quietly as if in sleep, in the 
very shadow of the goal post, he leaped hastily 
onto the field. At his approach the players fell 
back, leaving space for him to fall on his knees 

at Meredith’s side. It was the work of an in¬ 

stant to lift the fullback’s eyelids and note his 
eyes unresponsive to the light. With a smothered 
oath, Earle lifted the unconscious player’s arm; 
it dropped again like lead. Then, like a flash, 
he felt for the pulse-beat at the wrist. At his 
elbow the Captain of the team spoke briefly, 

“It was that damned goal post. Is he badly 
hurt ?” 

Earle was looking straight before him, as if his 
thoughts were far away. With an effort he 

brought himself back to the present. “It’s bad 
enough,’’ he answered. “Severe concussion of the 
brain. He’ll be out of things for a while.” 

The Captain gazed apprehensively at the pale, 
drawn, death-like face, the closed eyes. “When 
will be come to, Doc?” he whispered. 

Earle shook his head. “There’s no telling,” 
he answered grimly, “but from the symptoms, 
probably not for a week.” 


XIX 


God in His Time Disposes 

The sun had sunk, fiery red, behind the hori¬ 
zon; the afterglow faded from the sky, and the 
early Winter twilight shrouded the hill in dark¬ 
ness. Outside the hospital, the questing wind 
remorselessly harried from the trees the few 
remaining leaves, brown and withered. Indoors, 
the pleasant room with the wood fire blazing 
on the hearth seemed by comparison doubly 
cheerful. By the table Meredith, fully dressed, 
sat dozing in his wheeled chair, apparently, save 
for the pallor which still persisted, making his 
way speedily back to health. Dorothy, seated in 
the armchair by his side, looked up from her 
knitting to ask, “Is there anything I can do for 
you, dear?” 

He reached forth one hand to clasp hers. “No, 
nothing, thanks,” he answered, and when he spoke 
the languor of his tone revealed the real extent 
of his weakness. “It’s enough just to have you 
here. That smash on the head has made an old 
woman of me; I never knew what it was to feel 
dependent on anyone before.” 

She leaned forward and kissed him. “Dick, 
dearest,” she whispered, “there’s just one ques¬ 
tion I want to ask. I’ll never speak of it again, 
280 


GOD IN HIS TIME DISPOSES 281 


but it worries me so, day and night; I must get 
it off my mind. If you’ll only tell me, once and 
for all, that there’s no bitterness—that you for¬ 
give me—that you believe I meant it all for the 
best.” 

Her voice quivered, broke, and the ready tears 
brimmed her eyes. Very gently he drew her 
hand closer and touched the gold circlet on her 
finger. “How can you ask, dear, when you’re 
wearing that?” he answered. “It has only brought 
us closer; taught us the lesson we had to learn, 
that we can’t shape our lives to suit ourselves.” 

As he finished speaking, there came a knock 
at the door, and the nurse, entering, placed a slip 
of paper in Meredith’s hand. “All these people 
to see you,” she said, “but I’ve told them they 
can stay for a moment only. Doctor Earle 
wouldn’t allow more than that.” 

“You can trust me,” Meredith grimly answered. 
“A few minutes will be all I can stand.” He 
looked again at the slip, then directed, “These 
two first, please; then the others.” 

A moment later Rosamund and Randall en¬ 
tered, bringing into the sick room a glow of youth 
and health and happiness. “Just dropped in,” 
Randall explained, “to tell you people we are 
following your good example. We’re going to 
be married next month; local papers please copy, 
and all that sort of thing. Thought we’d stop 
in and see how you were getting on, Dick, and 
ask you and Dorothy for your good wishes at 
the same time.” 


282 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


There followed the customary handshakings, 
exclamations and congratulations, on Meredith’s 
part a trifle forced, for the radiant joy of Randall 
and Rosamund in their approaching marriage 
served to bring home to him the secret tragedy 
of his own. Thoughts of Stella came also to his 
mind, and while Randall talked and laughed with 
Dorothy, he found the opportunity to ask Rosa¬ 
mund, “How is your sister?” 

She hesitated before replying, “She’s quite well, 
thank you; she’s living at home now. But I never 
saw a girl so changed; it’s hard to believe. She’s 
doing hospital work; I think it’s her way of 
trying to make up for—for what’s past.” 

Meredith sighed. “I’m sorry for my part in 
it,” he owned. “I was much to blame. Though 
I don’t suppose our plot was the real obstacle 
to their marriage. Has she seen Frank Endi- 
cott again?” 

“No,” Rosamund answered. “But I have. And 
he has changed, if anything, more than Stella. 
I don’t think he’ll ever get over it. You know 
how seriously he takes things; and he was mad 
over her. Honestly, I think he loves her still.” 

“Perhaps,” Meredith hazarded, “some day—” 

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “Stella is 
proud, and whatever happened, things could never 
be the same. No, it’s a tragedy; that’s all you 
can say. But we mustn’t tire you, Dick; we’ll 
come again.” 

As his visitors departed Meredith turned to his 
wife. “If you don’t mind going out for just a 


GOD IN HIS TIME DISPOSES 283 


moment,” he said. “I have some private busi¬ 
ness to talk over with my brother.” 

“Surely,” she acquiesced, “only remember the 
doctor’s orders—just a minute or two.” 

She left the room, and there followed almost 
immediately the entrance of Arthur Meredith 
and his wife, the man worn and bent, the woman 
immaculate, tastefully gowned, showing not a 
trace of worry or fatigue. With a mere inclina¬ 
tion of her head she walked over to the window 
and stood looking out into the darkness, while 
Arthur Meredith sank into the chair by his 
brother’s side. “Dick,” he gasped, “I don’t know 
how to thank you. I got your message. You’ve 
saved me from hell.” Then, half timidly, and 
with all the eagerness of a child, “And you have 
the money? You really have it?” 

For answer Dick Meredith fumbled in his 
pocket, drew forth the narrow slip of paper and 
handed it to his brother without a word. The 
older man grasped it with a sob of relief. “Dick,” 
he began, but the words would not come, and 
he turned, instead, to his wife. “Mary,” he cried 
sharply, “have you nothing to say?” 

She turned from the window and walked slowly 
across the room. “I should like, of course,” she 
said coldly, “to add my thanks to my husband’s.” 
But to Dick Meredith it was only too evident 
that all her old hostility to him still persisted, 
and that in this pretty woman’s narrow brain the 
fixed idea remained that Dick, instead of being 
her husband’s savior, was instead the original 


284 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


cause of all his misfortunes. From his chair 
Meredith surveyed the ill-matched couple; the 
woman so youthful looking, so well groomed, so 
undeniably handsome; the man worn, his clothes 
threadbare, prematurely aged. A sense of inev¬ 
itable tragedy oppressed him. Yet there seemed 
nothing that he could say, and even as his quickly 
tiring nerves warned him that his visitors had 
remained long enough, the door was thrust open, 
and Prescott Earle’s entrance hastened their de¬ 
parture. 

With a sudden sense of weariness Dick was 
glad to sink back and relax while the doctor, with¬ 
out a word, slipped the clinical thermometer be¬ 
neath his patient’s tongue and, watch in hand, 
laid his delicate white fingers on Meredith’s 
wrist. Removing the thermometer, he leaned 
back in his chair with a reassuring nod. “Not 
bad,” he said. “You’re doing very well, which 
shows the advantage of being an ox in human 
form. You’ll get your strength back shortly 
now; inside of a week you’ll be leaving here. 
How is your wife?” 

“She’s very well, thanks,” Meredith answered 
absently, and after a moment’s pause he straight¬ 
ened up and looked the physician squarely in the 
eye. “Now, doctor,” he said abruptly, “this 
whole business is at an end, and I shall never 
refer to it again. But there’s one thing I want 
to know—one thing that I must know. Was it 
because I was injured, because I didn’t show up 
as expected, was it the shock of the disappoint- 


GOD IN HIS TIME DISPOSES 285 


ment—” his voice faltered and became almost in¬ 
distinguishable, yet the doctor heard faintly the 
conclusion of his sentence,— “was that it—was 
that the reason—the boy—didn’t live?” 

There was a long silence, broken only by the 
ticking of the clock on the mantel, and the occa¬ 
sional hiss and crackle of the fire. Then the 
doctor spoke, with a simplicity unusual for him. 
“I’m afraid so, Dick.” 

Meredith leaned forward, a curious light in his 
eyes. “Just to think,” he said musingly, un¬ 
naturally calm. “My own little boy. And I 
would have died to save him.” 

Prescott Earle, gazing at him, marvelled at 
the power of suffering. For this youth, before 
his eyes, was transformed into a man; the lines 
on his face seemed to have added ten years to 
his age. And the platitudes he would have 
uttered died on his lips, for here was a tragedy 
beyond reach of words. Presently he rose, but 
before leaving the room stood for a moment by 
Meredith’s side, his hand upon the shoulder of 
the younger man. “I’m sorry, Dick,” he said 
gently. “I never dreamed—if we could only 
have known—” 

He went out quietly. For a space nothing 
stirred in the room. At length, with a sigh that 
was half a moan, Meredith raised his head, and 
with a look upon his haggard face like that of 
some old monk about to scourge and rend his 
quivering flesh he repeated slowly the lines, 
beautiful in their sadness, that he had chosen as 


286 


DAUGHTERS OF EVE 


the penance for his sin. Falteringly the golden 
syllables fell from his lips: 

“ ‘Man proposes, God in His time disposes, 

And so I wandered up to where you lay, 

A little rose among the little roses, 

And no more dead than they. 

It seemed your childish feet were tired of straying, 
You did not greet me from your flower-strewn bed 
Yet still I knew that you were only playing— 
Playing at being dead. 

I might have thought that you were really sleeping, 
So quiet lay your eyelids to the sky, 

So still your hair, but surely you were peeping, 

And so I did not cry. 

God knows, and in His proper time disposes, 

And so I smiled and gently called your name, 
Added my rose to your sweet heap of roses, 

And left you to your game/ ” 

Again silence; then as if impelled by some 
power greater than his own, Meredith rose and 
walked slowly to the window. Outside the beauty 
of the night, majestic, calm, enveloped the earth; 
beyond the shadowy hills to the westward rose 
the blue-black sky, studded with sparkling stars; 
floating above them in immeasurable space shone 
the slender sickle of the moon. So the great 
world had sped for centuries; so, tranquilly un¬ 
heeding, it would speed for centuries to come. 
Yet no contemplation of infinity, nor of the pitiful 
littleness of human things, could still the hunger 


GOD IN HIS TIME DISPOSES 287 


at his heart; of one thing only was he thinking— 
of the tiny, lonely grave amid the solemn pines, 
of the child who would never nestle in his father’s 
arms, never know the pressure of a mother’s 
kiss. And suddenly the man who had scoffed at 
all life’s deeper mysteries realized his own 
impotence, his need of help and comfort. With a 
gesture of tragic longing he raised both arms 
imploringly to the vast and silent sky. “O God!” 
he prayed, “be kind to him! My little boy!” 


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